Street Sharks: Redux
by DarkLightShades
Summary: The Street Sharks Series Rewritten: One Madman with schemes to rule a city and recreate the human race, and the ragged group of not quite heroes with the knowledge and power to stop him. Discontinued
1. Chapter 1

**Authors Note**: This authors note may be long. If you don't care who we are and what we're doing then by all means scroll down and start reading. This is just backstory for anyone who might be interested in exactly what we have planned for this fic.

'We' being myself and my partner in crime, Luna Tiger. We've been in this fandom for longer than either of us care to admit to, and naturally we eventually started to question the series itself. What made it good? What made it bad? What would make it better? And eventually this questioning gave birth to a monster of a project to answer, What if we could rewrite it ourselves? And so, after much brainstorming and discussion and procrastination, we decided to give it a shot.

So this fic is our own twisted version of events with much more in the way of character development and plot twists (we hope) and much less in the way of terrible puns and overused catch phrases. For anyone who remembers the cartoon, there should be plenty of familiar elements – the same characters, simmilar events – but with a bit more flesh to it. At other times we will completely deaviate and try and make up for what the series was lacking (such as people of the female gender, for a start), or put an entirely new twist on things you weren't expecting. For anyone who doesn't remember the series then never fear, you don't need to. We're starting from scratch with everyone and everything, and we're going for the looong haul on this.

For anyone interested in what lies down the track, all the characters from the series will eventually make an appearance (Yes, even the obscure ones like El Swords and Shrimp Louie) and we will be including both the future arc and the Dinovengers crossover (with the characters that eventually went off to make 'Extreme Dinosaurs') although both of those plotlines are a while off still. **Feedback is greatly appreciated! **Particularly if you have ideas to share, or comments on what you think we're doing right/wrong.

And if you've managed to sit through that little speil then kudos to you, and on with the show!

**Legal Disclaimer**: The Street Sharks series is the property of DiC Entertainment. No insult is intended by this remake. We loved the original for all its faults, we swear.

* * *

**Chapter 1 – Down the Rabbit Hole She Fell…**

Bends walked the corridors of Fission City University with a spring in his step, whistling an off-key version of the current charts-topping hit he'd heard on the radio that morning. It was one of those uncharacteristically good days, when the majority of the student body seemed like decent human beings instead of over-worked, under-fed wraiths, and for a change all technology on the campus seemed to be running smoothly. Or perhaps the other faculties had decided to stop abusing their positions and were fixing their own fax machines instead of bothering him. Either way it left him unexpectedly at a loose end, and there was a pretty lady down in the biology department who could use an excuse to get out of her claustrophobically stuffy office.

He strolled in just as Lena was putting down the phone and – taking note of her deep sigh and worried frown – attuned his grin to the appropriate intensity.

"Hey lovely Lena," he greeted brightly. "You free for lunch? My treat."

She gave him a wane smile. "Sorry Bends, but I've got more classes to reschedule."

"Doctor B still hasn't shown up, huh?"

"No." She reorganised the clutter on her desk, sifting through the papers. "I've been trying his cell all day but either he's out of range or his battery died."

"Again," Bends added. "Have you tried home base?"

"Of course. Bobby said he left there last night with plans of not being back until morning. Something important came up apparently."

Bends smirked. "Bet someone was itching to play hookie."

"He knows better. Or at least he should." She sighed. "Doctor Bolton's never missed a class before. You don't think something might have happened, do you?"

The blond shook his head. "This is _the_ Doctor Bolton we're talking about. The current leading geneticist in the country? He probably just found a new lead on the cure for cancer, or something."

"I know, but…" Her lips pursed in thought and finally she stood, straightening the creases in her labcoat. "I really didn't want to bother Doctor Paradigm about this, but I'm a bit worried."

"So ask him," Bends said, leaning nonchalantly on the edge of her desk. "I'll wait here. That guy gives me the willies."

She glanced sideways at him. "Are you sure that isn't just because of the mess you made in his office when you tried to fix the heating ducts?"

Bends feigned a look of offense. "Hey, that was an honest mistake!" But it was good to see her smiling honestly again, even if she tried to hide it behind her hand. "And those ducts needed cleaning anyway. Now go." He shooed her away with one hand. "The sooner you ask, the sooner you can come back and have lunch with me."

"We'll see," she said, hesitating for a moment. "Can you-?"

"Watch the phone in case someone calls?" he interjected. "Sure. But When Doctor B walks though the door with that cancer cure under his arm, you'll see there was nothing to worry about."

All she had left to give him was a roll of her eyes, directed over her shoulder as she began weaving her way around mechanical clutter. Paradigm's office rested adjacent to Bolton's, a door unlocked to its brother's insistence of no one being allowed to step foot into it. Lena rapped a polite knock against the one ready to yield her entrance. "Doctor? May I talk with you?"

"It's open," came the muffled response.

Indeed it was, and Lena stepped through, leaving the door ajar behind her. "Doctor Paradigm? Dr. Bolton hasn't clocked in and we can't get ahold of him."

The bald man across the room didn't even look up in formal greeting, the pen in hand scritching over the small pile of papers in from of him. "No matter how many times I tell the students frantically asking where Robert has hid himself away when he isn't in his office, or how many times that one obstinate secretary rings me with inquiries about his eventual return from his trips, they have yet to understand I am not their beloved professor's keeper. I've _noticed_ his absense, Lena."

"No one expects you to be, Doctor, but aren't you worried?"

"Hardly."

"But he never pulls a vanishing act without leaving a message."

"He sent one to me early this morning." Paradigm plucked a scrap of paper off his note-sticker and held it out for Lena to take, all without looking. " I'm not sure what he's doing, but he wanted me to tell the staff he'll be back on the clock tomorrow. Oh, and can you call his boys for him? He mentioned wanted to see them at the Environmental Research Center, 3pm sharp."

Lena took the scrap and read Paradigm's neat scrawl carefully. She frowned. "Why couldn't he tell them himself?"

Paradigm snorted, a cross between amusement and disgust. "Dying phone battery. And his eldest was out of range at the time."

"Well, if you say so." She had no reason to disbelieve his words, but Lena did spare the professor a last glance before closing the door behind her. Regardless, it was back to playing phonetag with the Boltons. At least telling the right one spared her the pain of getting ahold of all four.

* * *

Hilary was awake promptly at 8am every single day, and even if she was just a small gray rat trapped in the maze of tubes that made up her house, she could be terribly insistent around breakfast time. Her tiny claws scratched loudly against the colorful plastic, ruining any chance John had of a proper sleep in. 

"It's my day off," he protested, but as with all pets who knew they had their owners well trained, she didn't care. With a reluctant sigh, he pulled on his clothes and staggered towards the kitchen, making his coffee entirely on automatic as he prepared her food.

Hilary tracked his progress, following the tunnels that lead to her feeding area. Her little maze was long enough to stretch through just about every room in the house, giving her plenty of room to roam and keep tabs on what he was doing, offering her quiet company and giving her the ability to remind him when he was missing meal times. She was better than an alarm clock, but a lot more difficult to ignore.

In any case, the loss of an extra hours' sleep was a small price to pay. While he didn't have any legitimate work there was a special project that had been awaiting his attention all week, and with an anticipatory grin he finished his drink and made his way to the garage. While he enjoyed the challenge of his thick college workload, sometimes he just wanted to get his hands dirty, and the new bike he was working on was going to be a beautiful thing when she was finished.

At the moment, however, she was a wreck. An anorexic frame of bare metal and twisted pipes. He'd had to strip her down to the bare essentials, carefully pulling away her flawed attachments with the promise of making her better than ever. He already had a bike, but this one was going to be special, born from his own hands with a few intriguing elements of his own design. He stripped off his shirt and made himself at home under her chassis. It took less than a minute to have his arms stained up to the elbows in grease, and about half that time to completely lose track of anything except the metal under his hands.

Shortly before Hilary would have been scrabbling for his attention again, the phone rang. John always kept it in arms reach for exactly moments like this; when his position was awkward enough to make getting up a bother. He grasped expertly for the source of the noise, catching it halfway through the second ring.

"Speak to me."

"_Well you don't sound busy_," Lena's wry, familiar voice filtered down the line.

John grinned, resting the phone in the crook of his neck so he could use both hands for his work. "What can I say? It's my day off."

"_You might need to reroute some of your time then_," she said, sounding a bit more serious. "_Your father left a message with Dr. Paradigm. He wants you all at the downtown ERC by 3pm today. _"

John paused, brow furrowed in consideration. "Well that's weird," he muttered softly to himself, trying to remember if his Dad had ever mentioned the place before. Raising his voice for Lena's benefit he asked, "Do you know why?"

She sounded apologetic. "_Sorry John, you know how second-hand information is. You know what I know_."

John suppressed a sigh. It always seemed like second-hand information these days. His dad had so many responsibilities that even finding time to take to his sons practically had to be written into his schedule a week in advance, but that was hardly her fault. "Thanks Lena." More lightly he added, "So does this mean I was nominated to pass around the message?"

"_It is your day off_," she observed pointedly. "_All that free time..._"

John rolled his eyes, knowing she'd be able to hear the action in his voice. "Joy. Talk to you later."

He ended the call, tilting his wrist to check his watch. Still early, but by the time he managed to get ahold of his brothers and get himself cleaned up he'd probably have just long enough to get across the town in peak hour traffic without being late.

John patted the underside of the skeletal bike resignedly, pushing himself out from under her. Looks like she wasn't going to get herself roadworthy just yet. So much for the day off.

* * *

Bobby elegantly navigated the muddy slopes, with only experience and skill keeping him from skidding wildly out of control. His near-misses with disaster were all very deliberate ploys to keep his adoring crowd awed at his prowess, and he crested the last hill with a cocky air-vault just to make sure they all still remembered who was the undisputed champion of the Motocross racers. 

Of course not all of them enjoyed the reminder, but the same people who muttered behind his back were also first to congratulate him for another brilliant run. Their unofficial sport had taken on a more competitive edge when Bobby had joined, and these days it was more than just another way to blow off an afternoon of school. The few people with a genuine interest in taking their little hobby further finally felt like they were doing something with it.

Of course, it was also an excellent opportunity to impress the girls, and Bobby would be the first to admit that was his primary reason for joining. The few who had been tempted along at the promise of excitement stood well back at the fence line. He slid to a neat stop in front of them, dousing the other competitors with a small spray of dirt that was traditional more than mean spirited. It hardly mattered at this point. They were all filthy from reckless revving and the deep puddles that littered the course, but Bobby fancied that he made a dashing figure in spite of it.

"What do you think ladies? Isn't this better than Mr. Harrington's algebra?"

"That was amazing," the closest girl, a pretty brunette with clear blue eyes, gushed.

"You're so good at this, Bobby," another said with a wicked smile. "You sure you don't wanna try out for the competition next month?"

Bobby groaned long-sufferingly. Carla already knew very well why he couldn't, tempting as it was. "You know how my dad feels about that. Unless I'm pulling straight A's, it's all study, study, study."

Of course, that had never stopped Clint, and it probably wouldn't have stopped Bobby if he was really that determined, but he was after a good time, not a career.

A cheerful chime sounded from the inside of his jacket. He checked the caller ID before offering the girls an apologetic look. "Excuse me ladies, duty calls."

He leisurely walked his bike over to the sidelines, making sure to turn of the motor before answering the call. "Bobby here."

"_What took you so long? _" John grumbled.

"What can I say? I'm a busy guy, upholding the family honor, all that jazz."

"_Uh huh. Then why do I hear engines in the background?" _

Damn. Bobby hadn't thought the noise of the others would carry so far, but if there was one thing his bother could recognize it was the sound of bikes. "Er…shop class?" he tried, but the coop was blown.

"_I thought you said you were giving up on dirt racing? _" John sounded aggravated. "_Remember that F you got in science? _"

"This is the last time, I swear." But neither of them believed it, and there was a strong impression of disapproval from his older brother. At least John never told their dad, but the secret was only grudging kept, and one of these days Bobby would run out of luck. He affected a lighter tone. "Anyway, what do I hold the honor of your wonderfully _dashing_ call?"

John sighed, but let it drop. "_Dad wants to meet us at the old Research Center. You know, the one downtown?" _

Bobby frowned, leaning back against his bike. "Why there? Didn't they close that place down, like, years ago?"

"_Dunno, but that's what Lena said so pass it on. I'll see you there_." John was obviously still a bit peevish, because he hung up before Bobby could say another word.

He glared at the phone. "Not if I see you first," he muttered before mechanically typing in the number for Cooper's phone. Afterwards, maybe he'd try his luck with the brunette for Saturday night. He needed something to look forward to besides another lecture from his brother.

* * *

Cooper gleefully made his opponent eat dirt in a spray of mud just short of the goals, and the ball was sent flying away from its intended destination. There was a whoop from the rest of his teammates as the coach called the time up, and a moment later he found himself in an exuberant dog-pile of back slapping and playful punches. 

"Good job, boys," the coach called, looking far cleaner than his students. It had been raining on and off for the past week, making the football field a sloppy, unpleasant mess for playing in, but no one had complained, probably for fear of being dunked in it by teammate and opposition alike.

The player Cooper had taken down was slightly more sour about the whole thing. "It's not fair. He's actually on the team."

"So?" one of Coop's own team shot back quickly. "You had Josh, and he would have been on Varsity if he'd bothered to show up for tryouts."

Likely true. Josh was broader than Cooper, and not too bad with the ball either. The game had been a pretty close one with both sides giving their all, and personally Cooper didn't think there was anything to be ashamed of in losing that last goal. Playing the game was more important than the outcome.

However, he was less skilled in word play than he was with the ball, so he simply offered the fallen player his widest, most earnest grin and offered a hand to get him out of the mud. "Hey, I just got lucky. It was a good game."

After a moment of deliberation the player evidently decided not to argue, and offered a small smile of his own. "Yeah it was." He took Cooper's hand and allowed the taller boy to pull him to his feet.

The coach nodded approvingly. "Alright, to the lockers everyone, and no lagging. Remember, you've all got another period after this."

The division of the teams was healed with a shared groan, and with the exhilaration of the game wearing off with the reminder of class, they began trudging back to the buildings. On the sidelines, Cooper's bag was making a muffled, beeping noise, and he hastily dug through it to answer the phone before the PE teacher heard it. He was supposed to have it turned off during classes, but somehow he always forgot.

"_Aw Coop, don't tell me you wasted another goal post,_" Bobby's voice chimed before Coop could speak.

"That only happened that one time," Cooper protested, indignant but smiling. The foundation of that post had been shaky anyway. Anyone could have knocked it over. "So what's up?"

"_New orders from the chain of command_," Bobby answered with mock seriousness. "_So listen up, little brother, because last one there does the dishes for a week._"

* * *

The phone was still ringing despite every attempt to will it to stop. The pillow over his head did practically nothing to drown it out at all, and so with a reluctant heave he unburied the offending object from the mess beside his bed and brought it to his ear without bothering to open his eyes. 

"This better be good," he muttered, stretching out luxuriously.

"_Dad wants to meet us at the old ERC downtown,_"Cooper said, sounding far too happy and functional for this obscene hour. "_You've got thirty-six minutes and counting. Bobby says it's a race._"

"A race?" That brought a drowsy smile to his lips. "Cool."

He dropped the phone back in some approximation of where the receiver should be, pulling the covers back over his head to get in a few more minutes of sleep and ignoring the tinny voice speaking in the background.

"_Clint? Are you still there? Clint?_"

* * *

With his bike safely hidden in an old shed at the back of the school grounds, and little reguard for the fact that he was skipping out on his last class of the day, Bobby was free to make his way downtown. It wasn't exactly a short distance even on his roller blades, but at least it was mostly downhill and better than facing the terrible traffic that was Fission City's hallmark. Whoever had designed their roadways had obviously been a bit unhinged, and there were certain intersections and side streets that probably only made sense to their original architect. 

He met Cooper halfway down the main street, still wearing his pants from football training and looking dirty but cheerful. Bobby had been sure to take a change of clothes, and was proud to say he still looked his usual impeccably groomed self.

"Thought you'd have gone ahead," Coop said, giving himself a few more pushes so his skateboard didn't lose momentum and charitably matching Bobby's pace.

"Had to break away from my fanclub," Bobby said with an expansive shrug. It wasn't a sore point between them. Bobby had most of the upper class girls wrapped around his finger but Cooper was popular in his own circles, especially with anyone connected to the sports teams. Neither of them were exactly following in their father's academic footsteps like John was, and it was often a something they could both relate to.

Coop did work at it, but he didn't really have the right mindset for schoolwork, and Bobby had never tried hard enough to figure out if he did or not. There was always something better he could be doing with his time.

While they didn't compete in school, however, everything else was fair game. While he may have been youngest, Cooper was more than able to keep up with his brothers. With a football player's build, and a few inches of height over Bobby, he was faster on the hills and pride insisted that Bobby not accede victory so easily. Besides, he knew a shortcut.

He gifted his brother with a smirk and cuffed him teasingly on the shoulder. "Catch you later, bro."

He turned sharply down a crack between two buildings before his brother could even blink, racing past beer bottles and graffiti walls. There weren't any people back here, giving him free reign to go as fast as he wanted, and this way he didn't have to cross the bridge which was always a risky bet when you were in a hurry.

There was one thing he'd forgotten though. The stairs. It was treacherous enough going down them on foot let alone on his skates, but that didn't deter him for a moment, and with a feral grin he simply jumped down to the next landing. The impact was hard, but he didn't have time to think as the moment he touched down he had to jump again, like a strange game of leap frog. It was dangerous and fun as all hell. He laughed and he made it to the bottom without a single mangling crash, and only finely honed reflexes kept him from crashing with the insane speed he now pushed.

If there was one thing he could be proud of, it was this. He was a natural on roller blades – couldn't even imagine how other people could find it challenging to keep their balance. Before he'd discovered motocross it had been his greatest rush, and even now he still enjoyed the thrill. He didn't bother with safety pads anymore, and there was a whole lot less to protect him if he slipped up. Good thing he never did.

By the time he emerged back onto the main streets he was nearly there, and the few people wandering were smart enough to dive out of his way. A few people shouted insults at his back, their voices lost to the wind rushing past his ears, and he laughed…until he realized that on the opposite side of the street there was a figure matching him for speed. Either Cooper was faster than Bobby had calculated, or he'd taken a shortcut of his own. Damn.

"Might as well stop now bro, I've totally got this," he called, struggling to put on more speed. The chain link fence surrounding the ERC loomed before them. Bobby distractedly noted the large 'For Sale' sign had been plastered over with an equally formidable 'Sold' sticker, but barely paid it any heed as he and Cooper raced neck and neck, though the gate.

The end of the parking lot was wordlessly declared the finishing line, but just before they reached it there was the roar of a motor behind them, and instead of two people skidding to a halt, it was three.

John leaned idly on the handlebars of his motorbike while his younger brothers panted. "How come I never get clued in on the races?" he complained.

"Because you're first in the chain," Bobby grumbled, trying to ignore the stitch in his side to he could straighten up. "So who won?"

"I did," a lazy voice remarked, and they turned to see Clint sitting with his back to a sign pole, looking perfectly relaxed. He yawned widely. "What took you guys so long?"

Cooper stared. "No way. How did you get here so fast?"

"Hitched a ride," Clint smirked enigmatically. "So we're supposed to be meeting Dad here, right?"

"Guess so," John said, looking up at the pristine white archway into the main building.

The Environmental Research Center had been the last battalion against Fission City's growing pollution problems…until the city had relocated the funding elsewhere and the place had been driven under, falling into disrepair. Now it looked almost brand new again, with a fresh coat of paint and the rust scraped off. It was possible someone had taken an interest in continuing the research there, maybe even using Doctor Bolton's influence to do it. John wasn't quite sure why the four of them had been called, however, but it was probably important.

"So are we going in or what?" Bobby asked, tapping his foot impatiently.

"I dunno," Cooper said, eying the impressive doors warily. "They don't look like they're open to me."

"Never know until you try I suppose," John said cautiously, approaching the building. There was no handle or intercom, so he shrugged slightly to himself and knocked on it. It made a hollow booming noise. "Hey, anyone in there? We're here to see our dad, Doctor Bolton."

He couldn't have been more surprised when it actually opened, leaving his hand to strike at empty air. The four of them stared.

"Okay," Bobby said slowly. "That was freaky."

Clint snorted and shoved him. "Wuss. It's just a door. There must be someone inside." He strode in fearlessly, seeming to be swallowed by the darkness in the building. It was like the afternoon light refused to cross the barrier of the doorway, and despite its pale, clean cut exterior, there was something odd about the place.

John followed his brother in more hesitantly, nearly blinded by the abrupt change in lighting as he crossed the threshold. Blinking to clear his vision he found it wasn't actually that dark inside. Small, artificial lights lined the sides of a room that was just as modern looking as the exterior, and just as empty. It looked like a reception room of some kind. Clint was already leaning over the main desk, but after a moment he looked up with a frown.

"There's nothing here. The computer isn't even on."

John looked from side to side, but there were no clues. Only a distinctly out of place looking 'No Smoking' sign. "Should we keep going?"

There was a single corridor leading further inward. John wasn't too keen on wandering around without an invitation, but their dad had to be here somewhere, right? Clint pushed away from the desk. "Guess so."

He heard Bobby and Cooper coming up behind him, the latter sneezing at the strong scent of dust in the air. "What? No hot reception chick? I'm disappointed."

Thankfully Cooper saved John the trouble of smacking the resident loudmouth.

"Ow! Hey…"

The indignant whine echoed eerily as they trooped down the only available path. At least it didn't look like they could easily get lost in this place, even without markers. The walls were disturbingly featureless. John noticed there weren't even any scuff marks in the floors, and couldn't help remarking, "It doesn't even look like anyone works here."

"Maybe they're all on lunch break?" Bobby said lightly, taking a more meandering stride than his brothers and seeming oblivious to the tension. His voice seemed overly loud in the empty building, and John almost wanted to urge him to keep it down, but then again he wanted to be found. He wanted some kind of proof that this place wasn't as dead as his instincts were telling him it was. "Or if you're Clint, it would be breakfast."

"And isn't this about the time you're usually cutting school?" Clint sniped back, but not quite as venomously as usual. He'd taken the lead of their little expedition, and had finally noticed a chance in the scenery. He ignored Bobby's muttering as he pointed. "Is that a door?"

It was one of the high-tech sealing kind, designed exactly like the ones at the University Science Building. The familiarity comforted John a little, and he tapped the release button in a practiced motion. It slid upward soundlessly, revealing a narrow staircase leading down into a large room that the eldest of the Bolton's could immediately identify as some kind of research laboratory.

"Dad must be in here," he said with certainty, making his way down the steep incline with as much speed as he could manage safely. Every step felt like he would fall into nothing, and he kept a solid grip on the railing while wondering why anyone would design it that way. He felt better with the solid ground at the bottom back under his feet.

"Dad?" he called out. His disembodied voice resonated off the walls, but there was no answer except the muted sound of machinery and the bubbling of heated water. At least this place seemed more alive, beating like the heart of a building should. There were a half dozen benches in there, each long enough to support three or four scientists with plenty of breathing room between. A whole team could work in there. The center of the room was starkly lit, but away from the tables it was dark, with indistinct shapes looming uncertainly in the gloom.

Clint forewent the stairs and simple skidded down the railing, landing with a thump at the bottom. "Well this looks like his kind of place."

"Maybe he's working," Cooper offered. "You know what he's like when he gets caught up in something."

John surveyed the area. "Alright. Let's have a look around. Just don't go too far."

"Yes Mom," Bobby said, rolling his eyes.

"And don't touch anything," John added warningly. That was the first lesson he'd learned in school about messing around in a lab. You never knew what might be dangerous. As he drifted over to the closest bench though, he found it hard to heed his own warning. There were dozens of open books, computer printouts, scraps of formulas on coffee-stained papers…genetic formulas he realized, picking out the sequence, and unconsciously he reached out to the nearest sheet so he could scrutinize it more closely.

It was brilliant. He couldn't quite grasp all of it, but the parts he could were groundbreaking. This was something entirely different from what his lecturers had been teaching. This was advanced! This was…not quite right. He pursed his lips, trying to follow the leaps of what was obviously a very educated mind as it twisted chemical formulas in an astounding fashion, but if he was right then something like this would….

A surprised yelp followed by the piercing sound of breaking glass pulled him abruptly out of his contemplation. He worriedly jogged towards the source of the noise, but all he found was Bobby glaring accusingly at a smashed beaker on the floor. Clint arrived a moment later, looking concerned, but it quickly melted into irritation.

"I thought I said don't touch anything," John growled before belatedly remembering the paper still in his hand. He shoved it quickly in his pocket.

"I just brushed it by accident. They shouldn't have left it sitting on the edge like that anyway," Bobby objected loudly.

A quiet hiss caught the attention of all three. They looked down to find the green substance in the beaker was sizzling acidicly, leaving a large, pock-marked sear on the ground before evaporating in a cloud of foul smelling smoke. The brothers shared a guilty look.

"Maybe they won't notice," Bobby said uncertainly.

"Maybe it's coming out of your allowance," Clint told him. "Their fault for leaving the door open though. Any old klutz could just walk in."

Bobby scowled. "Hey…"

"Guys! Come look at this!" There was an excitement in Cooper's voice that bordered on disbelief. Ignoring the short tussle between the middle siblings, John traced Cooper to the back of the room where the light cast only a dim glow. He was standing next to a huge square object that John couldn't quite figure out.

"Take a look in here," Cooper said, looking wide eyed. John obliging steeped forward and squinted hard. After a moment he realized it was some kind of tank, bordered by thick panes of reinforced glass, and if he looked hard he could just make out a reflection of light inside, like water.

A dark shape sliced across his vision and he jumped in surprise. "What-?"

But the profile of the creature was easy to recognize. The shape of the dorsal fin was distinctive, and a longer look even let him identify the breed. "Carcharodon Carcharias"

"Great White Shark," Cooper supplied for the other two, proving that a semester of marine biology hadn't been completely wasted on falling asleep in class. He put a hand against the tank. "They don't survive in captivity though. I wonder what it's doing in here?"

John stared into the eyes of the ocean's most fearsome killer and shivered softly. "I don't know. Let's ask Dad when we find him."

Clint looked around. "Er…I hate to be the one to say it guys, but I don't think Dad's here. This place is deserted."

"Except for the sharks," Bobby said, wandering over to another large tank and peering in. Another shadowy form could be seen circling inside it, and Bobby whistled softly. "You should check out the stripes on this one."

Large, dangerous, predatory species. Suddenly John decided maybe leaving would be a very good idea. The problem wasn't that the place was empty. Actually he was all too certain that there was someone here, and he really didn't want to risk meeting them. "Come on guys, Let's g-"

The lights went out. Every single one of them. His breath froze inside his lungs, but only for a second as he immediately reached for the last places Cooper and Clint had been, finding them both after a moment of blind groping. "You guys okay?"

"Uh huh." There was an edge in Cooper's voice, and John sincerely hoped that neither Clint nor Bobby brought up the fact that their youngest brother had been afraid of the dark up to age eight.

Clint squeezed his arm reassuringly. "Still here bro."

"We're trapped in a dark room with killer sharks and beakers of acid. Oh god this bites."

"Shut it Bobby," John snapped, uncharacteristically sharp. He could have sworn he heard something like footsteps, too heavy to be any of them. "Are you moving?"

"I ain't budging an inch until somebody finds a flashlight. Why?"

John flinched. He could definitely hear it. Loud, steady footfalls, coming closer, accompanied by a strange, stuttering hissing noise. It almost sounded like laughter.

* * *

_**Two days later…**_

The rotors of the helicopter blades spun uselessly as Guy waited impatiently for his takeoff to clear. This was the biggest story of the century, and if they thought they could keep him ground bound while the Manhunt was on, then they weren't giving him enough credit. He'd take his chances with the police if it meant getting his name in the city's celebrity books.

A loud pounding on the side of his craft startled him. He hit the release button, expecting to see a messenger with his long awaited clearance only to gape in surprise at the red-haired bombshell climbing aboard, cameraman in tow. "Hey, hey lady! You aren't allowed in here!"

Especially not if she was going to steal his story. He recognized her as one of the local news reporters. She shoved a bunch of papers in his face. "My boss made a deal with your boss. We're coming too, so you can drop us off at the scene. Now you've been given the go-ahead from air control, so get this thing in the sky already."

He gave the papers a disgusted look before tossing them on the copilot's seat without reading. Bloody bureaucracy. "Strap yourselves in then."

The helicopter took flight with the grace of a turkey. So what if he was making it a little bumpier than usual; it's not like the interlopers could complain seeing how he was getting them over the action. The redhead took it surprisingly well, clinging to her seat for life but looking otherwise composed, while her companion muttered something about barf bags.

"Throw up in my baby and I'm kicking you out," he growled, angling the craft to head towards the industrial district where the center of the action was going down. The police had been setting up roadblocks all over the place, so it was very likely they were going to be the only ones with decent footage by the time the night was through.

He turned on his mic, taking a few deep breaths to prepare for his performance. The thought of half the city breathlessly hanging on his every word made him giddy.

"Good evening Fiss-ners, and welcome to our special evening edition. Guy-in-the-Sky is here to give you all the gruesome details behind the frequent monster sightings we've been having. Stay inside and bolt your doors folks, because this isn't fairy tales and fantasies we have for you tonight. Oh no, a terrible tragedy has taken place right here in the heart of our city. A truth worse than fiction, and we have been given the inside scoop on these events by our special source from inside the Mayor's office itself."

For all the poetic he was placing on the disaster, he couldn't manage to sound anything but pleased as punch. You didn't get scandal like this every day.

Of course, in the back of the helicopter, he could hear the redhead beginning her own exposition for the television screens while he reported over the radio.

"In a shocking turn of events, one of Fission City's most respected citizens has turned on his own children," she was saying, her voice muffled by his earphones. "Doctor Robert Bolton, leading geneticist and researcher endorsed by Fission City University, has reportedly performed horrific experiments on his four sons, turning them into savagely mutated monsters.

"These creatures have attacked several innocent bystanders on their mindless rampage through the city, and have now been cornered in the industrial district by armed personnel. Very shortly we will be descending on the scene to interview those involved in the hunt for these Shark-like beings-"

She was completely throwing off his groove. He couldn't wait to get her out of his helicopter so he could concentrate again. He spoke loudly over the top of her, not caring how his voice carried. "Tonight we will be following the massive manhunt for these creatures, overseen by the Mayor herself! Hopefully this is the beginning and the end of the threat that we reporters are calling the 'Street Sharks'."

The redhead glared at him, momentarily off the air. "Since when are we calling them that?"

He grinned breezily. "Since right now Miss. I think it's catchy, don't you?"

She scowled at him, then lurched as the helicopter suddenly descended at his practiced command. "Anyway, just relax. I'm taking you down now. You go get your interviews, and I'll keep an eye on the action, and we'll both be famous by tomorrow."

Her cameraman whimpered at the movement, but the twist of the red head's mouth was determined. "Fine."

* * *

The small TV screen on top of the counter offered only a very fuzzy view of the reporter at the scene, but Gerald Cunningworth still regarded it with interest. It was fair to say that, between the management of his hotel and the various duties it entailed, he didn't get out very much. It was with a kind of terrible fascination that he watched this new disaster unfolding from the safety of his chair. 

Monsters on the streets? Children mutated by science? Father of four gone mad? The world really was a horrible place, and at times like this he was glad he only had to deal with a small trickle of people passing through from the outside. Better to stay where he was, inside the pride and joy that was his hotel. As limiting as that was, at least it was safe.

And on the slow nights, he had the TV to keep him informed of exactly why he was better off. He turned the volume knob up, listening determinedly though the hiss of static.

* * *

The Mayor straightened her hair absently as the reporter approached, mentally preparing her statement in her head. "How do I look?" 

"Just fine, Mayor Marino," her current assistant, Mr. Rogaz smiled in a way that didn't quite reach is eyes. Given the stress of the situation, she could forgive him for that. "Remember, none of this will reflect badly on you."

It would, she suspected. It always did. Who knew they'd been harboring a maniac like Bolton in their midst? But by the time the reporter had approached she was wearing a controlled expression of neutrality. Hysteria was the last thing she wanted to promote.

"Mayor Marino, can you please tell us what the city council is doing to take care of this menace?"

The dark skinned woman drew herself up. "I would like to assure all citizens of Fission City that they have nothing to fear. First of all, the mutants have been contained in this small industrial district and the area has been fully evacuated by all but experienced personnel. No one is in any danger unless they deliberately cross police lines." She paused to stare imposingly at the camera, enforcing her statement.

"Of course Mayor. Now what of the task force you have assigned here?"

"Only the very best," Marino assured. "Our pursuit of these criminals is to be as humane as possible. The task force is currently being headed by Doctor Luther Pardigm, an experienced scientist who has prepared our experienced team with the means to take the Boltons down without undue harm. It is our strongest hope that perhaps they can be cured of their affliction and reintroduced back into society."

The reporter looked intrigued. "Isn't it true that Doctor Bolton and Doctor Paradigm were close partners before this incident?"

"Yes, and I can assure you that no one is more shocked by Bolton's horrific crimes against both the community and his family." Marino looked squarely at the camera. "This is a difficult time for all of us, and while our hearts go out to those poor boys we must not forget that they are extremely dangerous. We encourage people to stay in their homes and away from restricted zones-"

Of course, there were a great number of people ignoring this sound advice already. A small gathering had come to watch, and maybe catch a glimpse of the monsters that had everyone so worried. Thrill seekers mostly, but mixed into the crowd were a few holding a more solemn vigil over the events unfolding. Bends and Jets milled in the back behind the camera crew, huddling against the wall, away from the sharp glare of the police that guarded the barricade.

"This isn't right," Jets muttered, shifting uncomfortably. "Isn't anyone going to stop this?"

Bends shook his head. "They've got witnesses to swear they've gone crazy. Nothing's going to stop them now."

Jets gave his friend a probing, sideways glance. Bends had been mysteriously absent during the last few days while the Bolton brothers had been missing. He half wondered if maybe Bends himself was one of the mysterious 'witnesses', but the thought of asking made his mouth go dry, so he didn't. Instead he chose to focus his attention on the imposing line of black armored hunters. "Look at what they're sending though. It feels like the guys should be given a warning, you know? Maybe they'd just give themselves up."

"They wouldn't," Bends said with iron certainty, but after a moment he dropped back into the nervous, jittery act he'd been in all night. "Look man, I've, uh, gotta go. There's some stuff I need to take care of."

Jets stared. "Now? Are you kidding?"

"Just go home Jets," Bends said softly. "This'll be over soon."

And he disappeared into the crowd, leaving Jets staring stunned at his back feeling more lost than before.

* * *

_End Note: Feedback makes us authors happy and productive, and that little review button exists for a reason. Click it please?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: Second chapter, and if you thought the first one was different then this one will surprise you even more. Enjoy!

**Edit**: Fixed some typos and added a proper title. Carry on!

* * *

**Chapter 2 - Curiouser and Curiouser**

Consciousness was not the slow, meandering process it usually was, waking up in a warm bed and being able to spend those first luxurious minutes adjusting to the return of awareness while deciding what to accomplish in the day to come. No, consciousness came rushing back like a slap to the face, coughing and spluttering as John realized he was half-face down in a pool of water, soaked through, dirty, and feeling like he'd been through the spin cycle of a washing machine. When the worst of the liquid was out of his lungs he sat up, staring around in undisguised confusion.

A storm drain – a common enough sight around the city – though what he was doing in one was more than his jostled brain could even try and guess. The water was only two or three inches deep, not quite enough to drown in thankfully, and littered with street trash, the occasional ruined tire, and probably a dead rat or two. He dried valiantly not to think of how much of it had gone into his mouth, but that led him back to the equally unpleasant question of what he was even doing there in the first place.

He remembered...not a lot. Something about a dark, dusty building and Bobby complaining and Cooper sneezing.…

He staggered to his feet, invigorated now that he'd realized the missing element in this equation. His brothers. Suddenly finding them was his highest priority even if he didn't quite remember why, nor did he have any certainty that they would even be here...wherever 'here' was.

"Cooper?" he called out, startled at how scratchy and hoarse his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Bobby! Clint!"

A weak groan answered his call, and he staggered unsteadily towards its source. A pile of debris he'd initially dismissed as just more rubbish shifted slightly and groaned again, and then Bobby's head rose into view. Water dripped from the tips of his hair which had lost most of its gelled style, and he regarded John with blinking uncertainty.

"What time is it?" The question popped out of Bobby's mouth instinctively, as if he were oversleeping on a school day. John would have found it funny under any other circumstances.

"Wake up bro, we've got a problem." Major understatement, but there was no point in flying into immediate panic if it could be avoided. He did his best not to think of how big a problem it was starting to look like. A domino effect of one hysterical thought after another was not going to help them.

From the looks of things, Bobby didn't seem to be any more informed than he. "What's going on?"

"I don't know, but we need to find Clint and Cooper."

There was an uptight pause where it looked like Bobby was going to object solely on principle, but the innate wrongness of the whole situation was more pressing. He took John's proffered hand graciously, letting himself be hauled up, and immediately winced.

"Ouch." He rubbed his bare arms, fingers testing pressure against the skin. "Hurts."

John knew the feeling. Like a whole body ache that wasn't quite strong enough to be crippling, but hovered just above being a simple annoyance. It wasn't enough to deter him though. "Let's go."

Slogging through the drain wasn't pleasant. The uncomfortably squishing of waterlogged shoes, the stench nearly unbearable, and underneath it was the fear. Thankfully they didn't have to journey too far. A deceptive turn in the train had him nearly tripping over Clint's prone body, and Cooper was only a short distance away, just starting to wake up. By unspoken agreement John went to kneel at Coop's side and Bobby nudged Clint disdainfully with the toe of his sneaker.

"If you're dead I'm not lugging your carcass out of here."

Clint rolled over, grumbling, "Like you could even carry me with that ego of yours weighing you down." He sat up abruptly, gagging. "Oh geeze. What reeks?"

"You," Bobby responded automatically, taking a step back just in case Clint's stomach still had anything in it. Sure, the drain wasn't exactly forest fresh, but it wasn't that bad. "Move it Clint, I'm not waiting around so you can get a few more minutes of shut eye."

Wheezing and trying to filter out the smell using his sleeve, Clint staggered laboriously to his feet. "Where are we?"

"Dunno. Storm drain?" Bobby shrugged. "Guess we better hope it's not an active one."

John glanced around uneasily. The innocent comment had triggered something in the back of his mind, and the relief he'd felt at seeing them all safe and together suddenly evaporated. There was a prickling sensation just on the edges of his senses, and it was almost like a premonition. _Dangercomingnow!_ "We need to go."

"Well yeah, if anyone finds out I spent a weekend in a gutter with my brothers my social life is ruin-"

"_Now_!" He didn't mean it to come out so harsh but there was no time.

"What's wrong?" Cooper asked, swaying unsteadily in place. John quickly slipped under his youngest brother's arm, offering what little support he could if it would only get them moving quicker.

"Something's coming," John muttered distractedly, missing the slightly incredulous look the other three exchanged. "How do we get out of this thing?"

The walls were sharply sloped, near impossibly to climb especially since none of them were at their best. The sun was low enough to be casting long shadows and a fierce glare over everything, but a dim shape further down the drain caught Clint's attention. "Is that a ladder?" Hard to tell at this distance, but a dim hope was better than none.

"Let's go for it," John said, setting off with Coop at a hobble while the other two ambled slowly along behind.

"Has he lost it or what?" Bobby asked quietly, but Clint wasn't paying attention.

He cocked his head to the side, listening intently. "Do you hear something?"

The snappish retort died on Bobby's lips. He did hear something. A crashing, splashing sound, like the ocean except not nearly as calm.…

Water. Lots of water. Suddenly running to catch up with John seemed like a very good idea.

"You had to make that comment about it being an active drain," Clint snarled, pushing his exhausted muscles to their limit. Every so often, the drains needed to be cleansed to get rid of the garbage and to stop the stench from building up. There were supposed to be fences and guards to keep the public out, so how they'd made it past that and ended up in the drain in the first place was a mystery.

"How was I supposed to know?"

They reached the base of the ladder just as Cooper was being helped onto the first rung. The water was definitely coming their way.

"Climb fast little bro," Bobby urged, following as closely as humanly possibly.

"You next," John ordered Clint, and there was no arguing with him when he used _that_ tone. Coop had just reached the top – only twelve feet above them but it seemed like a mile – and was reaching back to help Bobby.

John was still at the bottom when the first of the water came gushing past. The swirling wave nearly swept him off his feet, swelling to knee height before he could even react. He jumped on the ladder, barely able to keep his balance at the wave tried to carry him away. It was cold, shockingly so, and only panic stopped his limbs from clenching up involuntarily. The statistical number of people who accidentally drowned in the storm drains each year rose persistently to the front of his mind. He was at least grateful to see Clint's heels disappearing over the edge of the drain.

It was a race, himself against the water, but unfortunately the water was winning. The higher it rose, the harder it was for him to keep going upward, and by the time it came up to his chest he knew he had lost. Only sheer persistence kept him clinging to the slippery metal, but even that was failing. He was going to have to let go.

Seconds that seemed like frozen years ticked by, enough time to remember the unpleasant drone of his last marine biology lecturer who had harped on about how ill suited humans were for water compared to the other creatures of the deep, when suddenly he felt a new force pulling at his wrists. One- Two- Three pairs of hands all reaching down to claw desperately at his skin and clothes, tearing him out of the water's chilly embrace.

He ignored the new pain of the scratches he received, kicking against the rushing tide and trying to find purchase against the wall, and finally he was free. His brothers pulled him over the edge, gasping and shaking, all freshly soaked. The water continued on its merry way, now harmless and forever ignorant.

A cursory glance around revealed no familiar streets. The buildings were a rusty red color, and their uniform windows stared out like apathetic eyes. It was unsettlingly desolate, not a person in sight, but in Fission City a traffic jam was never far away and the angry blaring of horns could be heard in the distance.

"So what do we do now?" Cooper asked, sweeping hair back from his eyes, suddenly noticing his cap was missing. He couldn't remember if he'd even had it in the drain or not, but then the rush to get out had stamped out every other thought.

John had squeezed the worst of the water from his outer shirt, and he re-buttoned it with a steely look in his eyes. "We turn out our pockets and hope someone's got a quarter. We need to find out what's going on."

* * *

It figured; the moment he looked away from the phone it decided to ring, making him jump half a foot. He fumbled as he answered it, almost dropping it before bringing it up to his ear. "Lena's desk, Bends speaking." 

"Bends?" The man in question sagged in relief at John's voice.

"Oh man, you guys are in so much trouble. Lena was about to call the police when she found out you guys didn't come home last night." He rifled through the baggy pockets of his shorts, looking for his beeper. He couldn't wait to start on the I-told-you-so's when she found out they were all okay. "Seriously, tell your dad to call into the office already. I'm sure they'd be firing him if he wasn't the best teacher they had, and Paradigm's been really pissed all day-"

"Dad?" John sounded distant, confused. "You mean he's not there?"

Bends paused awkwardly. "Uh, no. You guys were supposed to meet him yesterday, remember?"

There was a profound silence on the other end, followed by a babble of conversation. If he listened intently, Bends could make out the voices of the rest of the brothers.

"Dad? No way. He should have been working, right?"

"I don't remember. I don't think we saw him."

"Maybe we should have called home instead."

Bends thought he should interrupt at that point. "Lena's been calling your house every hour. Your dad's been missing from work for two days now." He had the distinct feeling that his news was a surprise when it shouldn't have been. "What happened to you anyway? Where are you?"

"Uh…" Lena's desk was even more of a mess than usual today, but a brief search dug up a pen and a scrap of paper while John looked for landmarks. "Corner of Varity and Fourth, Industrial district. Can you come pick us up? Something happened..." John didn't quite seem to know how to finish his own sentence.

"Varity and Forth? I'll be right there." It wouldn't be the first time he had to fish the boys out of trouble, but this time had an unpleasant feel to it. He scribbled a quick note to leave on Lena's desk just in case he couldn't reach her by other means.

"Be quick," John asked bleakly, and no sooner had Bends put down the phone he was searching for his keys with one hand and the elusive beeper with the other. He broke out of the office at a jog, not bothering to lock the door behind him. Someone else could take care of it. This was a family emergency; didn't matter to him if the Boltons were blood relations or not.

From the deepest recesses of his pockets he finally found what he was looking for, but him moment of victory was cut short when he rounded a corner and slammed into a student with an armful of books. Fast reflexes saved him from falling, but not from the painful impact. The girl crashed to the floor, her possessions scattering. A few people turned to stare. Somebody laughed.

He offered her a sheepish smile. "Sorry. In a hurry."

She was vaguely familiar. Plain face, strawberry blond hair; he thought he remembered seeing her hanging around the library a lot but she'd never been an especially friendly sort and he couldn't think of a name to go with the face. Normally he'd be more apologetic, but he couldn't stay to help her up even as she regarded the mess with unmasked despair. He trotted away, too absorbed with sending a message to Lena to notice the venomous glare she shot at his retreating back.

* * *

John was still soaked and his brothers weren't much dryer, making it unpleasantly cold to wait out on the street, so they'd retreated down a small alleyway to at least get them out of the brunt of the wind. John waited on the edge nervously, looking out for Bends's distinctive van. Clint was pacing restlessly, stopping every so often as if he wanted to say something, before apparently deciding otherwise and resuming the cycle. Bobby and Coop were hunkered down, shoulder to shoulder, conserving what little heat they had. 

The silence was torture. Cooper looked morose. "What happened to us?"

Bobby didn't have an answer, but anything was better than the silence. "I remember being at school yesterday. I asked the new girl out. Michelle."

"What did you bribe her with to make her say yes?" Clint asked reflexively, before halting again. "I just…arrg!" He punched the nearest wall. It mustn't have been very sturdy because a few hairline cracks appeared in the masonry. "I can't remember a thing. None of it."

"It's like amnesia," Cooper offered, hands around his knees. "Doesn't that only happen if you hit your head?"

"Or if something really bad happens," Bobby said. "Mental trauma. Saw it in a movie."

"How authentically reliable."

"So _what_ then, genius? What's your greater-than-thou theory?"

Clint glared, but said nothing. He didn't have one. Unlike the others he couldn't even remember doing anything yesterday. Total blank.

"And Dad's missing too," Cooper said uncertainly. They'd been toeing around the issue since the phone call. "Do you think something happened to him?"

"No way." Bobby sounded so sure, brushing it off with certainty. "I bet when Lena calls home again he'll be there. Or maybe he's looking for us."

John couldn't think. All he could hear was Bends uncertain voice. "_You guys were supposed to meet him yesterday, remember?_"

He did remember now. He remembered a white building with an odd logo. The words were right on the tip of his tongue so he spoke them. "He said he wanted to meet us at the old Environmental Research Center."

Bobby made a face. "Why there? Didn't they close that place down, like, years ago?"

John swayed slightly in place, Bobby flinched in surprise. "Oh wow. Deja-vu."

Clint blinked. "Huh?"

John shook his head. "Never mind. But we did go there, I think. Looked like someone else had bought the place."

Cooper looked hopeful. "Was Dad there?"

"...I don't know." John looked away. It was like his mind refused to show him anything that happened after crossing the doorway into that darkness. Maybe Bobby was right about the mental trauma. Maybe he didn't want to remember. If they'd ended up in a storm drain, it couldn't have been anything good.

He rubbed his arms again. It was more than just the cold. His hands ached, right down to the bones. He was starving too, with the kind of hollow gnawing in his belly he hadn't felt since that camping trip when they'd run out of food a day early. He really hoped Bends had something edible with him.

He actually heard Bends arrival before he saw it. His van had a peculiar, purring motor that wasn't quite like anything else John had ever known. He knew Bends had a particular flair for mechanics, and the engine was probably something he'd tweaked to perfection. It certainly ran well for something that looked like it had been preserved none-too-carefully since the '80s.

"Man. Took him long enough," Clint said. Unreasonably, maybe, but he and Bends had been friends the longest and companionable grumbling was the usual. The two of them even owned a small business – something Clint had proven to be remarkably proficient at despite his usual lack of motivation for anything resembling real work. Apparently running the comic book store didn't count, except when it required him to be up before midday.

Bobby and Cooper hobbled after him, not quite sure who was supporting who at this stage as the van rolled to a neat stop on the curb. Bends leaned out the window, looking disturbed. "Man, you guys have had it rough. And why are you wet?"

"Long story," John groaned. "Don't suppose you have some towels?"

This was not as strange a question as it may have seemed. Bends believed in coming prepared, and all manner of strange things could be found in his possession at any given time.

"Hmm…try the in back…wait a second, I'll just look."

The back of the van had enough room to fit about seven people comfortably, but was piled with boxes of tools and odds and ends that the brothers had to pick their way past to get to the chairs. A hasty search dug up a stack of old blankets - musty smelling and scratchy but better than nothing – for John to dry himself on while the others used them to ward off the chill.

Bends looked at them all in stark bewilderment. "So what happened? You don't need to go to the hospital do you?"

The ache was still present but bearable, and his brothers were shaking their heads. "No." He had a thought. "But could you take us to the Environmental Research Center?"

Bends rained an eyebrow. "Isn't that where you were meeting Dr. Bolton?"

"It was…" Memory still sternly refused to give up anything beyond that doorway. "But I don't think we're going to get any real answers until we go back there."

Bends gave them each a look, unreadable behind his ever present sunglasses, but eventually nodded his acquiesce. "Alright, but you guys had better explain on the way. I'll need something half-credible to run past Lena when we get back or we'll get an earful. You know how she is."

John smiled tiredly. He did know. "Done."

* * *

They hit their first snag before even getting into the compound. The gate was locked. Clint rattled it in frustration. "No way. This was open before." 

Bends looked towards the building. "You sure? This place still looks like it's closed down."

"It doesn't on the inside," Bobby told him. "It's all brand new."

"You remember?"

Bobby rubbed his head. "Sorta."

Now that the building was back in front of him, things were starting to come back. Leaving school, the race…but then there were a few things that just weren't making sense. Eyes swimming in the dark, test tubes of candy colored liquids, and needles. Bobby shuddered at the thought. He hated those.

"There's got to be some way in," John said determinedly, ad it was obvious they weren't going to leave until they'd at least looked inside. They began walking the perimeter of the fence line with Bends followed more slowly behind. It wasn't like he thought they were making it all up, but four separate cases of amnesia at the same time? A mysterious building that was supposed to be empty? Waking up in a storm drain? The Bolton family had always been a little on the crazy side, one of the reasons he liked them so much, but this was all a little too weird. He really wished he had Lena to back him up on this one, but in the meantime he was willing to follow the brothers and help them do whatever they needed to.

Their solution wasn't too far away. They found a small tear in the links, not quite enough to slip through, but a start. Bends had already resigned himself to the idea that they were probably going to be breaking and entering before the day was through. "I have some wire cutters back in the van," he offered.

That apparently wasn't fast enough for Cooper, who simply grabbed the fence and pulled. The metal tore like aluminum foil, like he wasn't making any effort at all, and in a moment they had a hole big enough to climb through. Bends stared, peering over the rims of his shades to make sure _he just saw that_ correctly. "Or you could do that."

"Score one for Coop," Bobby cheered, looking around to make sure no one else was around before ducking lithely though the gap. Cooper just shrugged with a small smile and followed him.

Bends was last. Experimentally he tried to bend one of the wires. It was stiff and sturdy, resisting his effort. He certainly couldn't have broken it with just his own strength. More weirdness.

They scuttled across the yard to the side of the building, hiding in its shadow. It was starting to get dark but there was no point in taking chances. Bends didn't fancy trying to explain this little endeavor to the police. "Well I don't think we'll be getting though the front door," he said lightly. "So what next?"

An open window was their savior. Clint gestured. "Boost me up."

Copper and John did so, needing to push him above shoulder height to reach it. He scrabbled dangerously, pulling himself over the window's edge while the others winced at the noise and looked around anxiously. Finally he made it, and there was a tense silence while they waited for him to orient himself. Eventually his head reappeared. "All clear."

It was absurdly like the teamwork games they liked to play on school camps. They took turns playing human pyramid until everyone but Bobby and John were inside. The elder looked at his brother. "You're lighter, Bob. You're going last."

"Oh thanks," Bobby complained, meaning he'd have to boost John himself, but did so with good natured grumbling. He was soon left alone on the ground, staring up at Clint's broad smirk. "Now what?"

"Jump," Clint suggested, grinning wider.

Bobby gave him a flat look. "You're kidding." It was nearly twice his height straight up.

"Nope. You don't wanna be stuck out there, do you?" Which was a lie. John was already looking for a rope or something similar to help the last brother up, but Bobby couldn't know that.

He raged quietly, kicking at the dirt. "Goddamnit…" But it was worth at least one shot. Clint leaned out over the edge offering a hand, and Bobby gave himself space for a small run up. He kicked off the wall for extra lift, expecting to maybe touch the tips of Clint's fingers before falling back down-

Clint caught him by both elbows and after a short battle against gravity managed to hold him steady. They were nearly nose to nose. Bobby could almost have reached the sill by himself, and they shared a silent look. _Whoa._

Clint's smile was faintly admiring. "That was on hell of a jump."

"Yeah." It was an unreal jump. Bobby stared down, trying to gauge the distance. Maybe it wasn't as far as he'd first thought. "When I get back to school, I'm so trying out for the high jump team."

Clint snorted dismissively, hauling him inside. Bends looked intrigued, and John was already hovering impatiently at the end of the corridor. The hall they were in was empty and uninteresting, and he could practically feel the pull of promised answers from inside. "Let's go."

The building was dark, no windows or electricity, but there was just enough light to see by after their eyes adjusted. The atmosphere was oppressive.

"So does any of this look familiar to you guys?" Bends asked finally. They were hardly a stealthy group, and it didn't seem like a bit of extra noise was going to hurt.

"Not here, specifically," John said quietly. "We might have been in a corridor like this one though."

They stopped at a junction. Two passages lead in different direction, and there was a stairwell going down. Cooper looked between their options. "Should we split up?"

"You obviously don't watch enough horror movies," Bends muttered, pulling Cooper and Clint closer warningly. "Never split up in the strange building. That's when the axe murder comes after you."

"Can you not say that?" Bobby asked plaintively. The building was already giving him bad vibes. It was a strange mix of facing the unknown and the implacable certainty that he _did_ know what was out there, and he knew enough to fear it.

"We need to go down," John said abruptly, doing so without waiting for the arguments. His head was tilted slightly, as though he was following some kind of sound only he could hear. The other four exchanged a dubious look before following.

"Makes sense, I guess," Cooper observed. "If we came in through the front the first time we would have been down on the first floor."

Downstairs was equally unfamiliar though, but John walked quickly, guided by some indeterminable sense or maybe just whim. Bobby couldn't tell, but natural caution didn't like the idea of matching his pace. "Hey, slow down already would you?"

John's distracted voice drifted back. "We're almost there."

"Almost where?" Bends questioned, but he was shortly answered by the sight of a door in front of them.

John stopped in front of it, nodding in a satisfied manner. "This is it."

"What?" But the other brothers were in agreement.

"It leads down into the lab," Bobby told him.

Bends frowned uncertainly. "What lab? You didn't mention it before."

"Didn't remember," Clint said, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant.

"Are you going to open it?" Bends questioned when no one made a move, now intensely curious. This had to be what they were here for.

"I guess." John didn't want to. Now that they'd come this far he suddenly wished they hadn't, but there were answers behind this door, and maybe their father as well. He pressed the button and was momentarily dazzled by the fresh light pouring outward. The lab was still lit exactly how he'd remembered it. This time they were entering at a different angle, but the place reeked of familiarity and something a bit more jarring. Something dangerous.

Driven by impulse, Bobby took lead and darted between the long lab tables. "We were definitely here. I remember spilling acid on the floor, see?"

The crowded around, in near awe of the scorch mark. Blindsided by a sudden memory, John reached into his jacket pocket. His fingers instantly found the think sheet of paper he'd taken from the table right before the acid incident. It was a bit crinkled at the bottom where water had soaked it, but otherwise intact.

"What about the tanks?" Clint asked suddenly. "We looked at those, remember?"

It was an odd journey of self discovery, retracing their footsteps to the back of the room. The tanks were just as imposing as John remembered, but now they stood empty.

"What do you think they kept in here?" Bends asked, mystified.

"Sharks," Cooper told him, sounding nearly as surprised to say it as Bends was to hear it.

"Sharks?"

"Yep. There were four of them."

Bends shook his head. "Freaky." He looked around. "So what are we looking for?"

"I don't know," John said, musing on the probem. "We were standing here…Bobby was over there a bit more…"

"And everything went black," Clint offered helpfully.

Bends blinked. "What? Like you passed out?"

"No. The lights went off, I think."

"Alright, so then what?"

There was no answer. All four brothers went quiet in deep thought, but memory was frustratingly fleeting after having diverged its secrets up until that point.

John closed his eyes, trying to remember the way it had felt, standing in the dark, but that strange sound was messing with his concentration again. Like a silent bell ringing from just beyond this room. He glanced around in frustration and noticed something new; an unmarked door. The noise was coming from just beyond there.

"Does anyone remember going through there?" he asked, pointing. He was met by three blank stares and Bends' more intrigued one. "Well it's a place to start."

He didn't feel that same sense of recognition at this door, but the room beyond it was a different story.

_BadbadBAD…_

There were four tables, neatly lined up in a row. Tables with thick straps, and a neat row of empty needles beside each that he couldn't stop staring at in horror because there was something he nearly remembered that just-

He took an unthinking step backwards, right into Clint who scowled. "Hey, what's the problem?"

Cooper stuck his head in, looking around. "What do you think?"

"Don't know. Let's look around for a bit." The others brushed past him but John couldn't seem to find his voice. The ringing in his ears was almost deafening.

They spread out, Bends drifting predictably over to the computers. "This hardware's pretty fancy. Like the stuff we have at the Uni labs…Hey wait!" They regarded him oddly until he pulled one of the screens sideways to reveal a sticker. "Property of Fission City University: Genetic Research Department. This _is_ one of ours."

"Stolen?" Clint asked, coming to look.

Bends readjusted his headband, frowning. "I hadn't heard anything, but maybe." He looked suddenly concerned. "Your dad was supposed to be here. You don't think-"

"No way," Clint said venomously, but he looked disturbed.

"And check this out," Cooper said, proffering his discovery from behind the last table. "This is the cap I was wearing yesterday. That means we must have been in here, right?"

"You sure it's the same one?" Bobby asked. It wasn't like he doubted it, but suddenly he wanted to.

Cooper shrugged, putting it on and considering. "Fits perfectly."

It was like putting together a puzzle with only half the pieces, but any further contemplation was interrupted by a sniggering whispery noise, like the dangerous hiss of a snake. It was horribly familiar to the brothers, bringing back that petrifying moment of being trapped in the dark. John saw it first. "Up there!"

Unlike the rest of the building, this room was lit almost too brightly for comfort, and thus there wasn't even a shadow to hide the gruesome creature from sight. It was vaguely humanoid, but every limb was built from pure, corded muscle, and its eyes were perfectly round and dark; like a fish. It had scales like a fish too; aqua green, and a short sail that crested the top of its head and ran down the length of its spine. Instead of a nose it possessed a long, bone-like spear. It was also undeniably laughing at them, intelligence glittering in its eyes.

"Well, well, look at what we have here. Looks like the failures survived after all." Its voice was soft but harsh, dragging long on the letter 's'. It bared its teeth in what might have been a grin, showing neat rows of wicked fangs. "Guess we'll have to take care of that before the Doctor comes back."

It jumped down from the observation deck above, the impact of its weight rippling through the floor. John could only think of one word. "Run!"

It was mindless chaos as they scattered back through the huge lab. John ran for the first exit he could see, another doorway on the other side of the tanks, but it wasn't until he was in another unremarkable hallway that he realized he'd lost everyone except Bends. He almost slowed, but Bends urged him onwards. "Don't stop! They went the other way, and I think it's chasing us!"

It was. Even if John couldn't hear the pounding of its taloned feet over his own ragged breathing, that little bell was ringing again, informing him that something was coming up fast behind them. They turned down a number of sharp corners, picking their path at random, and John was forced to slow as the ever-present ache in his body suddenly intensified to agony.

"Wait," he gasped, staggering against the wall. He'd noticed it had gotten worse whenever he was feeling nervous, and in the face of full blown fear it was terrible. He doubled over, barely able to see through it. The only consolation was that the siren in his mind had grown quieter. The creature hadn't figured out where they'd gone yet, and at the moment it wasn't getting any closer.

"Dude, we have to keep going," Bends whispered urgently.

"Can't. Hurts." He was no stranger to pain, but this was different. It was like there was something inside him, clawing its way along his skeleton, trying to find a way out. He tried to muffle a cry of pain but failed, and all at once the noise in his head stilled for a second, and then started coming closer.

"Alright, lean on me." Bends pulled John's arm over his shoulder, having to support most of the other man's weight. They limped onwards, but even without the aid of John's uncanny sense, Bends knew it was catching up to them. The best they could hope for was a decent place to hide, but the corridor was empty, and as they turned the next corner they were faced with a dead end.

Bends stared at it, trying to will a door or a window into existence. Maybe there was time to go back and try another way? He turned and couldn't hold in a yelp at the sight of a huge shadow projected across the floor. The creature was here.

It turned the corner with deliberate slowness, sniffing the air like a dog. When it caught sight of the two of them its lips twisted into a gruesome smile. "So much for hide and seek. Looks like I found you."

John was still hunched in pain, which was worrying but not quite as immediate as the hulking monster in front of them. Bends noticed, absurdly, that it was actually wearing clothing; some kind of formfitting body suit imprinted with an unknown logo that looked like a skeletal fish.

A weapon would have felt really good in his hands right now, but the most he could do was stand protectively in front of John, shaking slightly with the force of adrenalin running through his veins. Assuming it didn't just knock his head from his shoulders instantly, maybe he could land a hit on it, find a weak point, maybe even get past it. If he left John and went by himself-

No. That was out of the question. Options, he needed more options!

John suddenly arched in agony. The creature seemed to find this entertaining. "He shouldn't have survived this long, much less come back. Failed experiments should know their place."

Experiments?

"John?" Bends asked worriedly, putting a hand on the fallen man's shoulder. "You need to get up man, we-Yaah!"

The skin on John's arm suddenly darkened dramatically, the deep blue color blooming like a bruise that quickly spread to the rest of his body. Muscles twitched and pulsed, almost like they were growing, and Bends couldn't help but take a horrified step backwards even if it took him closer to the creature. What was happening?

Watching with bright, interested eyes, the creature's reaction was much different. "Or perhaps he's not a failure after all."

The sharp undertones of malevolence made Bends turn in spite of his horrified fascination as John seemed to...change. The creature's thick taloned claws twitched eagerly and as it towered over him, Bends realized that his desperate hopes for being able to hurt it were for nothing. Whatever was happening, it seemed to understand, and it was far from being disappointed or worried.

"Of course, you still aren't needed," it told Bends conversationally. "Maybe if he asks me nicely you can be his first kill."

It was hard to say if it was when his heart stopped, or if it was when the hand clamped down forcefully on his shoulder, gripping with unprecedented strength that would undoubtedly leave marks. Out of the corner of his vision he saw…it had to be John, but he only looked remotely human now. Bends didn't have time to catalog the differences. His vision was filled with hungry, watchful eyes and rows of teeth like shards of broken glass. Even if he wasn't being held steady he wouldn't have been able to move. Running would only make it worse, if that were even possible at this point. Either way, he knew he was already dead, and he faintly hoped that John would remember him well enough to make it quick.

* * *

_**One day later…**_

It was eerily quiet on the streets. Paradigm had known, logically, that the area had been evacuated, but it wasn't until the sound of the gawkers had faded into the background that he could really appreciate how much noise was wasted by the average human being. There weren't even any stray animals lurking about. They'd probably all been spooked by the scent of unnatural predators in the air.

The Boltons were definitely here. Not huddling and scared like the Media was trying to portray them – Paradigm doubted they were human enough for that any more – but vigilant and vengeful. They were everything that should be rightfully feared; insanely strong, inhumanly fast, and smart; enough that they knew better than to attack front on. No, they were hiding in the shadows, preying on anyone who drifted too far from the main group. He suspected he'd lost nearly half his people by now, and had to touch the comforting additions to his arsenal, reminding himself that he had not come unprepared for this confrontation.

It was difficult to track them. The only trail they left was in bodies, and even the police dogs refused to enter the area to follow their scent. Numerous sighting had indicted the brothers were hiding in the buildings, sometimes using the sewers to move around so the helicopters above couldn't follow them. Despite being so obviously out of place, they knew what they were doing.

He heard shots being fired recklessly from the next street, accompanied by cries of pain and thoughtless shouting.

"He's over here! Shoot him!"

"Man down! It's too fast-"

"We need backup!"

Without thinking he was already running, automatically taking note of the ladder leading upwards in the alley, along with the dumpster that could provide decent cover if he needed it.

By the time he arrived, it was already over. Men lay crumpled on the streets, most of their weapons lost or destroyed, and their opponent was already slinking back into the darkness, trying to withdraw. Paradigm wasn't about to let it go quietly, and in a smooth, practiced motion he drew his gun and fired a shot. The tazer bullet impacted on the creature's skin, and the mutant roared in surprise and pain. After a moment it seemed to be able to shrug off the damage, and it twisted to find the cause.

Doctor Luther Paradigm was not hiding, and the creature that had once been John Bolton seemed to recognize him.

Paradigm crooked a finger. "Come on then."

Whether John heard him or was simply attacking by instinct, it was hard to say, but the effect was the same, and rather than waste another shot Paradigm sprinted back into the alleyway and made for the fire-escape. Once upon a time, he'd been in the military, and years of nearly forgotten training had him climbing quickly and surely. Even so, he nearly lost a leg as the dumpster was all but thrown in his direction, twisting the bottom of the ladder into a horrific parody of a half-amputated limb.

There wasn't time to stop. The moment he reached the stairs he was running, but the mutant was close behind and not necessarily limited to the ordinary rout. Paradigm heard metal squealing in protest and felt the whole frame jar under him as it tried to support the weight of the creature going up the side of the escape, John having both the strength and reach to simply climb from level to level instead of walk the roundabout route. John was tiring though, and Paradigm almost smiled. That was exactly what he wanted.

He managed to reach the roof first, hastily putting some distance between them. The area was wide and flat, with no cover which meant his opponent wouldn't have anything to throw this time. That was a bonus. He waited, and surely enough, John appeared, heaving himself over the edge, panting and weary. Above them the clouds finally gave in to what they'd been threatening all evening, and rain began pouring down. Neither combatant noticed.

Everything was in readiness. On the street there was too much of a chance that John would simply run if he thought he might lose. Up here, it wasn't Paradigm who would be trapped, and when John fell, his brothers would be quick to follow. Cut off the head and the body stops moving…though not in the literal sense. This was a mission of mercy, after all. It was his last intention to kill the boy.

He pulled out another pistol, facing down the mutated being that had once been a young man. "Enough damage has been done. It's time to end this, Monster."

* * *

_Like it? Hate it? Tell us what you think! Reviews are much appreciated._


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note**: Third chapter, which gave us plenty of trouble in the making but is now ready for human eyes. Disclaimers are back in Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 3 - We're All Mad Here**

It was possible that this was the moment where his life was supposed to be flashing in front of his eyes, but all Bends could remember was that strange lab with the four tables and the computer screen that shouldn't have been there, and he wondered _What am I missing here? _The small part of him that wasn't frozen in fear was almost annoyed that he was going to die without even knowing what the mystery was all about.

"What do you need, an invitation?" The long nosed creature snapped suddenly. Bends couldn't tell if time had actually passed, or if it was just impatient. "Get rid of the human. The Doctor doesn't want any witnesses."

John's attention shifted – just enough that Bends thought he might be able to breath again – and he regarded the creature for a long, unreadable moment before speaking. "Leave."

The creature boggled. "What?"

Bends thought he might just pass out. It would probably have been easier on his heart, because as alien as he now looked, John's voice was the same. A little harsher, slightly clumsy now that the shape of his mouth had changed, but it was so shockingly familiar that for a moment Bends didn't see a misshapen animal, but a broad, dark haired young man.

"Leave us alone," John repeated, this time with narrowed eyes that were just as fearsome even if they weren't directed at Bends himself.

The creature didn't seem nearly as threatened, thought it wasn't taking John's declaration well. "What are you saying? You were made second so you take orders from me!"

Teeth were bared dangerously, and the hand on Bends' shoulder tightened. "I don't think so."

Bends was tossed aside as easily as a toy, slamming against the side of the corridor with bruising force, but it was a better fate than being stuck between the two creatures who were clashing like a pair of alley cats, spitting and snarling. He tucked himself close to the wall as they rolled past in a tangle of limbs and claws and other sharp implements that frankly Bends wanted no part of. The moment he was clear, he ran.

Things had ceased to make sense the moment John had started turning blue, and at the moment all he could think about was getting out of the building and calling the cops. He was so far out of his depth he couldn't think straight, and after getting lost in the turns of the corridors he latched on to the first landmark he found, even if it wasn't exactly where he wanted to be.

The door to the lab was open invitingly, and even if he wasn't completely sure how to find the exit from here it was better than staying here where the sounds of the struggle were too loud and close for comfort. At least the lab should have been empty, and it wasn't until he was past the doorway that he realized he was wrong.

There were more creatures in here. Three that looked like the unholy merging of man and shark, with sharp dorsal fins and pointed snouts that housed far too many teeth. The largest of the three, whose hide was a surprisingly cheerful shade of orange dotted with spots of yellow, was holding another monster at bay who looked like nothing so much as an oversized lobster.

Yes, things were definitely not making sense anymore.

At the moment they were all distracted, but there was no chance of sneaking past without being seen, and he had no desire to go back the way he came. Nursing his sore shoulder, Bends sank down as inconspicuously as he could beside the doorway. Maybe he'd get lucky and they'd leave before spotting him.

The lobster was howling in outrage as the orange one shoved it against one of the tanks, leaving a spiral of cracks in its surface that wept water sluggishly. Another shark, this one with pale blue skin marked with vibrant stripes of purple, leaned nonchalantly against one of the tables, looking unimpressed. "Hit him again, bro. I don't think he's gotten the message yet."

Bends blinked, startled. That voice had sounded a little too much like Bobby for comfort.

The lobster was limping slightly, but seemed far from defeated. "You three are dead! When the Doctor gets back, he'll unmake you!" He rushed at the orange shark again, only to be swatted easily aside. The third shark moved quickly to pin the lobster's arms, keeping out of reach of the thick pincers it had instead of fingers.

"'Doctor', huh. Was he the one who did this to us?" That was definitely Clint. He was perhaps the most strange looking, having the distinctive look of a hammerhead shark, with eyes separated on thick stalks.

The lobster hissed. "I don't have you say anything to you."

"Pity." The hammerhead threw it back at the tank, creating another, and larger, crack. This time it slumped, stunned. "Whoops," feigned the hammerhead innocently. "That might have been a bit too hard."

"You need to be more careful. We still need it to tell us what's going on." The orange one spoke with Cooper's voice, and while turning to admonish Clint a new scent caught its attention. "Hey, there's Bends."

The blond in question stared with an expression that clearly said, Oh shit. The sharks, however, seemed pleased.

"There you are!"

"Where did you go? Is John alright?"

Bends gaped silently. Maybe it wasn't the world that had gone crazy. Maybe it was simply him.

When he didn't immediately respond, the one with stripes stepped forward. "Hey, are you okay?"

Something snapped. Bends was pretty certain it might have been his sanity, but the next thing he knew he was twenty feet from his original position without a single recollection of having moved a muscle. "Stay back!"

"Whoa, hold up! Bends it's me, Bobby." The shark offered its hands up in surrender, giving Bends ample opportunity to observe that its hands ended in sharp talons instead of blunt fingers.

"You've got to be kidding." Though the shock was worse because Bends could feel himself partially believing it. After so much continuous strangeness, he was practically growing numb to it all.

"No joke," Bobby swore, careful not to make any threatening gestures. "When that lobster thing started chasing us, we just sort of, yanno, changed. What about you? You don't feel funny at all, do you?"

Bends actually had to think about it before giving his diagnostic. "No, I'm okay." Aside from the fact that he was talking to a mutated shark that used to be his best friend's brother, and said best friend was giving a cautious, apologetic look with one eye while the other managed to gaze in the entirely opposite direction to keep an eye on the lobster. Other than that, things were peachy. He sat down again, rather suddenly. "I…uh…think the same thing happened to John though."

Though the expression was hard to identify, Bends thought Cooper looked concerned. "He's okay, right? What about that other thing? With the nose."

Bends straightened his glasses, needing to think. It was surprisingly difficult to recall the last five minutes. Panic seemed to have scrambled his memory. "They were fighting. I dunno who was winning."

Now he felt almost bad for leaving John behind – What kind of friend did that? – but the more rational part of his brain assured him that there was nothing he could have done except get in the way.

Cooper looked stricken. "Should we go look for him?"

"Look for who?" a familiar voice asked from behind them.

"John!"

The brothers crowded around, and Bends almost smiled fondly. At least that wasn't so different, thought it was a bit more tenuous than usual since they still moved a bit awkwardly with the changes to their bodies.

That didn't stop Clint from pulling his older brother into a half hug before nudging him pointedly inn the side. "Moron! You had us worried there."

John winced. "Ouch. Go easy, will you?" He didn't look to be in the best of shape, sporting a number of scratches and cuts, though all of it was shallow. Even Bobby didn't object as John quickly checked his brothers over, making sure they were all right by touch as well as sight, before adopting a grim expression. "Well I guess we know what the lab is for now. And why those sharks were here."

Cooper looked lost. "What happened to us?"

John pulled a folded paper from his pocket. "It's in this. I found it in the lab when we first came here. It's part of Dad's gene-slamming formula, you know, the one he's been raving about for ages?"

"The one that was supposed to combine different DNA or something, right?" Clint took the sheet, but the equations didn't mean anything to him.

"Right, but it's only supposed to be used to make samples. It's not ready to be used on living beings. I think that's what happened to us on the first day. The one we don't remember."

"But who would do it?" Cooper asked. "And why us?"

"Whoever it was, they'll pay," Clint growled, slamming a fist down on the nearby table. It left a sizable dent that the others couldn't help but stare at.

"I dunno... Maybe it's not all bad," Bobby observed, admiring the triangular stripes that ran down his own arms.

"Are you kidding? We can't even leave the building looking like this! How are we going to change back?"

"Dad might know--" John began and then stopped, thinking hard. The wheels in his head were turning so loudly the others couldn't help but catch on to his line of thought.

Bobby frowned uncertainly. "You don't think Dad…?"

"Not a chance," Cooper said firmly, but there was a lingering sense of doubt in the air.

"But that computer," Clint reminded him. "And his formula."

There was an uneasy silence that followed and, despite his wariness, Bends chose to break it. "I think we should worry about that later. Maybe we should get out of here in case there are any more of those things."

"Why? We're higher on the food chain," Bobby smirked.

"No, Bends is right," John agreed. "I don't wanna fight them if we don't have to. Only where do we go?"

Bends scratched his head. "Good question."

* * *

It took a fair bit of searching but finally Bends found a decent hiding place that wasn't too far from the Lab. A lot of businesses in the area had been abandoned when the mayor had insisted on merging resources, and there were a number of buildings that stood empty except for the occasional homeless person or roaming gang. He thought about giving the brothers fair warning before realizing that any sane person would likely run away instead of starting a fight. 

He was half wondering if maybe he shouldn't have taken the chance to run, or at least to contact the authorities, but John was adamant about that. "I don't want them involved until we know what's going on. I don't want them coming to the same conclusions we did unless there's proof."

"Besides, it's not like we make very good witnesses," Bobby said. "We don't even remember all of it."

It made sense. Bends was fond of Doctor Bolton himself, and if it turned out he had nothing to do with this, Bends was just as happy for the suspicion to never come to light. On the other hand, the fact that he had been missing for so long suggested he was either a suspect…or another victim.

_Unless he's turned up since then,_ Bends reminded himself grimly. Lena would know, but he didn't have any way of contacting her at home, seeing how she was rarely there. His beeper had been smashed too, and while normally he could have shrugged it off and fixed it himself, he had neither tools nor time to do so.

When they were finally settled and he had a moment to check his watch, he was startled to realize it had flipped over to the AM. He rubbed his face tiredly. "Ugh, man, I need to crash. Are you guys gonna be okay here?"

He didn't feel safe transporting them very far. Even at this time of night, someone might notice, and with the lack-of-space in his van, he could only cart two at a time, leaving whoever was left behind exposed.

"We'll be fine. You can speak to Lena in the morning, right?"

There was no denying John was worried. He certainly had enough reason to be. "Absolutely." Bends snuck a look at the others, who were sniffing out the corners of their new hiding spot. "Think you can keep them out of trouble?"

John rolled his eyes with such suffering that Bends couldn't help but chortle a little. It felt a lot better than the continuing tension, so he decided to roll with it. "Hang in there then. I'll be back later."

"Yeah," John said softly. "Look, Bends, thanks for sticking with us."

He regretted the selfish thought of even considering leaving in the first place. "Nah. No biggie. That's what friends are for, right?"

That evoked a faint smile. "Right. And…I'm sorry about your arm."

"Huh? Oh, right." Bends had taken a look at it earlier. It had gone a merry shade of purple where John had grabbed it after his transformation, but Bends had since forgotten about it (though it'd be sure to remind him if he tried to lift anything it didn't like). "I'll put some ice on it when I get home."

"Alright." John held his eyes for a few seconds, completely serious. "I don't think those other creatures would leave the Lab to find us, but you never know. Just be careful, okay?"

Bends nodded soberly. "Yeah, you too."

* * *

The first thing Bobby discovered about being a shark – aside from the fact that he was now sporting a very fetching set of stripes – was that it sucked to stay still. As in really, _really_ sucked. 

"Don't sharks have an off button or something? I wanna sleep already."

John had mastered it the best so far, and had managed to sit in the same place for the last five minutes with only a minimum of shifting. "Sharks need to move to breathe. They're in trouble if they stop."

"Well I can breathe just fine," Bobby muttered, but his instincts didn't seem to be listening. "Hey, do you think we can breathe underwater?"

"Maybe. We've got the gills for it," Clint said, prodding Bobby's dubiously.

"Knock it off," Bobby scowled, rubbing them. "That feels weird."

Everything felt weird. He was starting to smell all kinds of things his brain couldn't even recognize, and already he'd had accidents controlling his newfound strength. Who knew doors would break so easily? The fin was strange too. Hypersensitive, even to the gentle drafts of air that floated through the building. It was annoying.

He'd lost one of his best shirts too. The parts of it that hadn't been shredded when he's changed he'd torn off himself. Everything else seemed okay…even his gloves, though they were maybe a bit tighter than before. Every time he thought about getting new ones he firmly squashed the thought; after all, they were going to get changed back soon, weren't they?

Thoughts circled pointlessly in his head until he grew sick of it. "I wanna go out."

John gave him a sharp look. "No."

"What are you, crazy?" Clint asked. "You want someone to call the police on us?"

"Well it beats staying here! I'm going to go nuts if I don't move around for a bit." It wasn't that much of an exaggeration. "Can I at least look around the building?"

Every line in John's body indicated he wanted to say no, but Bobby held firm until his older brother relented slightly. "Only if Clint goes with you."

"I thought I didn't have to baby sit anymore," Clint sighed, earning a light punch from Bobby that would have knocked an ordinary human down flat.

"Don't complain. Maybe we can find some food."

That prospect definitely cheered Clint up. "Then what are we waiting for?"

"Just don't go too far," John told them, but his warning went largely unheard.

* * *

"_Where have you been?_" 

Bends held his arms up in surrender as he walked into the Genetics Department's office. "I swear to god there's a really good reason."

Lena was having none of it. "I've been trying to call you since yesterday. I tried your house, you shop…even Jets and he said he hadn't seen you either, and now the school has been calling me to ask why Bobby and Cooper have been absent and _none_ of them have been home yet!"

He patted her tentatively on she shoulder as she took a deep, angry breath. "So Bolton still hasn't turned up yet huh?"

"No." Her eyes widened slightly. "But the police have been here asking about him. Do you know what's going?"

The news settled like a lump of lead in his stomach. "What did they ask about?"

"Uh…they wanted to know about his latest research, any changes in his behavior, how long he's been missing." She seemed to be managing the stress fairly well, despite it all. Her answers were quick and precise, just like her research notes. "I couldn't lie to them Bends. Doctor Bolton has been very distracted recently, and very secretive about his work. I didn't think anything of it before, but now…"

He nodded. "It's okay. You did the right thing." Even if Lena hadn't been the one to say it, eventually someone would have.

"At least tell me the boys are alright," she sighed, smoothing out her hair unnecessarily.

"Well…that's kind of a tricky question." At her warning glare he hastily added, "I did find them an' they're safe. For now at least. I, uh…" He sat down in a nearby chair, keenly feeling the lack of sleep. "Don't know where to start."

He was grateful when she took charge, seeming to realize that the last twelve hours hadn't been very easy on him either. "Well tell me how you found the boys. Your message didn't say."

"Eh?" He thought back. "They phoned here. I left another message on you desk with the details."

Thos obviously came as a surprise. Lena rummage for a minute but came up with nothing. "I never found it. Doesn't look like it's here now either."

"Weird," he shrugged. It hardly mattered anymore though. "Now, this is all going to sound really wacky Lena, but I swear I'm not making it up."

* * *

The building was some kind of manufacturing plant, they discovered, and after a restless search in rooms such as the kitchen (empty), head office (dusty) and the machine room (boring), Bobby decided he was done. 

"Let's go outside."

"You really are crazy," Clint muttered, brushing the grime from his hands off on his pants. "If we get seen-"

"We won't be," Bobby interrupted. "Who gets up this early anyway?"

Bends did, Clint knew, but let it pass. "What about John?"

"What _about_ John?" his younger brother challenged. "Since when do you need his permission?"

"I don't." Clint scowled, glancing at the doorway. He couldn't honestly say he was any less tempted than Bobby was, and there was a banquet of scents wafting in from the outside that downright begged to be investigated.

"Then let's go," Bobby said exasperatedly, as though it was the most obvious choice in the world. He brushed past Clint and headed for the door, knowing he didn't need to look back.

The door was locked, but Bobby found that one good shove was enough to break it open with strength to spare. He smirked, admiring the curl of his fist, fingers tipped with sharp talons. Yes, there were definitely some advantages to this whole shark thing. Outside, dawn was breaking magnificently over the horizon; hell, the birds were even singing. Under the circumstances he thought it was all rather funny.

Muttering direly under his breath, Clint came up behind him. "If we get caught, I'm telling him this was all your idea."

"My ideas are always the best ones," Bobby smirked. "Come on."

The city seemed completely different. It wasn't like this part of town was unusual or outstanding – every inch of Fission City was varying degrees of smoggy, dirty and bland, with a few drooping trees thrown in like sprinkles on a sad-looking cake – but with his senses amplified off the scale it was like visiting a foreign country. Or more like a different dimension. Even the litter in the gutters seemed new and exciting and delicious.

He pulled that last thought up short. All right, yes, he was starving, but he definitely wasn't ready to be eating out of gutters yet. The shark's mentality had a different view on things. Everything was regarded as potential food until proven not to be. It was weird trying to placate it with his own experiences on what constituted as real food and what shouldn't.

The sights were less interesting than the smells, and he found himself unconsciously following his nose while getting a feel for the territory. The smell from a nearby rubbish dump was overpowering – almost as fascinating as it was disgusting – but when the wind changed he picked up on something new.

"Can you smell that?" he asked Clint.

Clint cocked his head, considering. His eyes widened. "Someone's coming!"

He all but dragged Bobby down the alley, forcing them to take cover behind the interesting rubbish dump. It drowned out every other smell, and Bobby wrinkled his nose. "How can you tell?"

Clint shrugged. "Just smells like a person."

"And you're the expert since when?"

"Since now." Clint crossed his arms. "It's a jogger, I think. A woman."

Bobby looked at him incredulously. "You can tell that?"

The smirk Clint wore shouldn't have been that smug. "She's wearing a walkman too. Now shut it."

They waited a moment and sure enough a young woman huffed past, her skin slick with perspiration. The details seemed to burn themselves into Bobby's memory. Her hair was chestnut brown, her eyes were green, had two piercing in her right ear and another in her nose. He could even read the brand name of her watch though she couldn't have been in sight for more than a second. It was like she'd been running in slow motion, but just as abruptly the moment past, and he shook his head to clear it.

She'd also been wearing headphones.

"Can we go now?" Bobby asked plaintively, but was stopped short by Clint's arm.

"There's one more. A guy in a leather jacket. Red shirt."

"Now's you're just getting cocky," Bobby grumbled. Even assuming Clint could smell anything over the rubbish there was no way he could tell color.

When the guy in the red shirt strolled past a second later, Bobby stared at his brother like he'd grown a second head while Clint laughed wickedly at his expression. "No fucking way."

"Come on, we probably still have time for one more street before we have to go back."

It took Bobby a moment to unstick his feet from the pavement to chase after his brother. "How did you do that?"

"Trade secret."

"Oh come _on_…"

The next street had a few shops that looked like they might still be in business, though none of them were open yet. The brothers warily crept past another alley that seemed to have someone smelling of rotten fruit sleeping in it, and were drawn like moths to the flickering lights coming from one of the store windows.

"Hey, TV!" Bobby enthused. "You know, I missed a season finale last night. Damn. Hope I can find someone who taped it."

"You really need to work on your priorities," Clint muttered, pressing closer to the window. There was a pretty redhead sitting at a desk in the identical screens, the logo for Fission City's local news broadcast channel in the background. The volume now was turned right down, but he could catch a few words if he strained his hearing. One phrase stopped him cold. "She's talking about Dad."

* * *

The uncanny squeak of sneakers skidding on linoleum were the only warning Bends and Lena had before the door to the office burst open, but the visitor was hardly one they were expecting. 

"Jets?"

The dark skinned teen, only slightly older than Bends, leaned on the frame to catch his breath. "Do you have a radio?" he asked urgently.

Lena was a bit quicker on the uptake than Bends, and pointed out the small device on the shelf about her desk. "There."

"Turn it on to 101.3, now."

Although his fingers were a bit shaky from exhaustion, Bends was the master of all things mechanical and quickly had it tuned correctly. He put it back down on the desk and they all listened intently.

"-asking any citizen of Fission City with information on Doctor Robert Bolton's current location to come forward immediately. We advise not approach him if sighted, as we remind you he is considered to be armed and potentially dangerous. It is uncertain at this point as to whether his sons are accomplices or bystanders to their fathers crimes, and we encourage them to contact the police for further information."

"_What?_" Lena said, shocked.

"It's nuts, isn't it?" Jets said, leaning against Lena's desk. "They've been playing it all morning."

"What's he being accused of?" Bends asked suddenly.

"Possession of illegal materials, inhumane handling of animals, crimes against humanity, and I think a few others. I just can't believe it. I mean, this is _the_ Doctor Bolton. The man's a good Samaritan if I ever met one." Lena and Bends exchanged a strained look that Jets didn't miss. "What? You know something?"

Bends bit his lip. Lena had to steel her gaze before asking, "Do they have proof?"

Jets scowled. "Oh come on, you don't think…?" Her expression didn't change, and he seemed to lose a bit of his fire. "Yeah, they do. They found some kind of laboratory with computer files, papers in his handwriting, the whole shebang. But it's gotta be a setup, right? He has to've been framed." He gave them both a cautious look. "Does this have anything to do with the fact that Clint hasn't been home in two days? Have you guys heard from him at all?"

It wasn't in Jets' nature to press when someone obviously didn't want to tell him anything, but while Clint wasn't the most reliable person on the planet, he would normally have said something if he wasn't going to be around. And now with radio reports and police involvement, he had the dark suspicion that something fundamental in the order of the world had been grossly shifted.

Lena looked him in the eye. "No. We haven't heard from any of them."

_Please don't ask_, she told him silently. He glanced to the side, but Bends had withdrawn into himself and was saying nothing.

After a long moment he nodded slowly. "Alright." He stood to leave. "You both know how to find me if you need me for anything." It was the least he could offer, and probably the most they would accept.

She smiled gratefully, thought he suspected it was more for the things he wasn't saying than what he was. "We know. Thanks Jets."

He snorted. "Just get that lug head to call me whenever he turns up. He still owes the his half of the rent."

Jets left just as Doctor Paradigm was returning. Bends often forgot what an intimidating figure the man cut when he wasn't hunched over his desk. Luther Paradigm was easily six feet tall, and built like a military man rather than a scientist. The metal patch over his right eye did nothing to dissuade that image.

"Doctor," Lena greeted, standing. "Where have you been?"

"The police station," Paradigm said shortly. On a good day he was a bit standoffish, but now he seemed downright menacing in his ire. "It seems they couldn't even wait for me to get our of my car this morning before they hauled me off for questioning."

"About Doctor Bolton?" Lena questioned tentatively.

"What else?" Paradigm stalked into his office, rummaging for papers, but reappeared just as quickly. "I'm afraid you'll have to cancel my classes Lena. The Mayor has requested my presence. It seem they need an expert to figure out exactly what Robert's been up to."

He was moving quickly, and before she could think better of it she asked, "What did you tell them? About Doctor Bolton?"

He paused in the doorway, giving her a pained look, handing her a crumpled sheet of computer paper. "The truth, Lena. Only the truth."

In the next moment he was nothing but a stirring of rapidly disappearing footsteps. She looked at the paper, smoothing its creases, but the print was still easily readable in spite of them.

_I have committed the most terrible sin of all, using my own sons to further my love of science. They are as monstrous now as I am. May God forgive me for what I have done. _

- Robert

Bends and Lena shared a helpless glance. Before they might have had a chance to figure things out and keep it contained, but now the police were already digging, and the mayor…there was nothing they could do to stop the momentum of information. Word was going to get out no matter what they did.

"What do we do?" Bends asked, feeling more than a little lost.

Lena bit her lip, but the uncertain motion vanished, leaving a veneer of determination in its place. "We have to keep the boys safe. That's what matters most."

* * *

"Those lying sons of--" 

If Bobby hadn't been struck dumb, he might have thought to stop Clint from punching out first the glass window and then the largest of the TV screens, but he'd gone numb when the reporter had started listing their father's supposed crimes. It was a long list.

The TV sparked, its innards billowing black smoke, but the other TV's continues their identical, mocking dances. There was a shrill whining in the air that he eventually realized was an alarm, but Clint's furious panting seemed much more immediate. The street wasn't going to stay empty for long.

"Hey Clint." No response. He shook his brother's shoulder and repeated a little louder, "Clint, we have to go!"

Clint's temper was infamous and daunting, even for someone who knew him well. It was bad when he blew up, but far worse when he went silent, and at the moment they didn't have time for either reaction The tight trembling in his arms was the warning sign, but Bobby opted to pretend otherwise.

"We have to tell John and Coop, then we can figure a way out of this. Come on." He gently pried Clint's arm out of the ruined TV, noting with interest that despite all the broken glass his brother didn't have a scratch on him, but this wasn't the best opportunity to stop and marvel.

He didn't relish the idea of needing to drag Clint back, but if there was one thing he was good at it was knowing which buttons to push. "Move it, you big oaf! If we go at your snail's pace, they'll have Dad in jail before we get to the end of the street."

"You--!" Clint wanted to lash out and Bobby offering himself up as a target was enough to break him out of his silent rage. The familiar wail of police sirens sounded in the distance. "Fine. We're going."

Bobby had thought the mutation would slow them down, but he'd forgotten that sharks were surprisingly fast in their element, and if water was theirs than city streets were his. They shot past the startled looking alley sleeper, who'd been peeking around the corner to see what all the ruckus was about. On the wind he caught a bewildered muttering of, "Time to get out of this town," and he might have felt bad if there wasn't too much to be worrying about already. A few other people were starting to look out their doors, and even if they weren't sure of what they were seeing, they knew it wasn't natural.

"Oh my god--"

"Somebody call the cops!"

"They're already coming."

"Quick, get back inside!"

"What are they?"

"Horrible creatures…"

Bobby frowned in offence, half turning to see if he could spot the offender behind that last comment. "Horrible? Try looking in a mirror pal."

"Your ego will survive Bobby, let it go."

That was rich. "Ha! Says the guy who punched out an innocent TV screen."

"I'm still telling John this was all your idea."

Bobby cursed under his breath, but for the sake of the information they'd gained he thought John might just forgive them.

That of course meant finding a moment to tell him, because the moment they walked back in through the door it was clear John wasn't in the mood to be listening.

"What did you do?" he asked coldly.

"We--"

"I thought I told you to stay close Bobby, can't you think of anyone but yourself just this once?"

Bobby frowned, offended. "Hey--"

John glowered fiercely. "I can hear the sirens from here. If they manage to follow you back to this place it's not like we can go anywhere in broad daylight without being noticed. If they find us it's all over."

He was right, of course, but it wasn't in Bobby's nature to admit that. He stayed silent, quivering in frustration and shame at being chastised. What was he, twelve?

"Where's Coop?" Clint asked quietly, breaking the silent tension.

"Back in the office," John said, tilting his head towards the front of the building. "Why?"

It might have been unwarranted under the circumstances, but he didn't want their youngest brother to hear this. "The police are after Dad John. They say they've got all this evidence proving he's been involved in illegal research and whatnot. They're asking us to come forward."

That shut John up quickly, and Bobby felt a small, vindictive pleasure in the shock running over his older brother's face, but it was short lived in the face of the heavy weight of uncertainty. He might not like being told what to do, but this was too huge to handle by himself. "What do we do?" he questioned softly.

He could see John thinking, critically analyzing their choices. "Going to the police won't help anything. We can't say for sure Dad didn't do anything and we're…"

_We're further proof of what he might have done_, Bobby read between the lines.

"The best thing to do is stay underground until it's all sorted out, or at least until we can find a way to change back," John continued. "Not here though. We might need to hide out for a while, and this place barely has the basics. When Bends gets back, we'll start looking for some place more permanent."

Bobby nodded slowly. Made sense. He wasn't too fond of the cops anyway. The few he'd been unfortunate enough to run into in the past had never impressed him. They were all either incompetent, or insufferable, giving off a vibe that was dirtier than Fission City's pollution problem. He was all too happy to avoid them all together.

"So we wait?" he asked.

John nodded. "Yeah, and hope Bends can figure out how to sneak us out of here."

* * *

Michael Brock made the motion for his men to fan out, surrounding the small industrial site. He wasn't sure what kind of hysteria was spreading to the streets, but despite the number of people who'd volunteered to rant fearfully about what they'd seen, he still didn't have a clue as to what he was supposed to be chasing. People in costume? Monsters? Demons? The story changed depending on who you asked, and it was all about as helpful as a road sign to nowhere. 

The only clue they had was an anonymous tip suggesting there was something interesting to be found in this particular building. It might have been unrelated, or maybe even a prank, but the commissioner was in a frenzy and absolutely nothing was getting past unchecked. Something about the Bolton case had people worked up, though Brock wasn't sure why it applied to this case. Illegal research didn't have anything to do with a couple of thugs breaking a TV.

The place was supposed to be unoccupied, so he didn't feel any particular remorse as he kicked down the door, leveling his handgun at the interior. "Police!" he called. "Come out with your hands up."

Predictably, there was no sign of movement. He let out a short sigh of annoyance, but his trained eye took note that there were fresh trails in the dust, leading on a meandering path towards the next room.

"Looks like this one's a dud, 'ey detective?" one of his subordinates said, seeming relieved.

"Maybe." He didn't want to point out the trail. It might be nothing, might be everything. "Still, we'd better check the place out while we're here, don't you think?"

The other man didn't seem to agree, but he shrugged offhandedly. "You're the boss."

This was a common enough practice that they didn't need to be talked through it. The rest of the officers separated into pairs, clearing the rest of the building. Brock followed the dust. It separated into a couple of different paths, and rather than wait he decided to follow his gut instinct, choosing the widest trail. He was rewarded a moment later, catching a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. "Freeze!"

His target had no intention of doing so, and shot up the staircase before Brock could identify more than a flash of pale blue and lavender.

"Suspect is moving towards the roof of the building," he mouthed into his radio, taking the stairs two at a time. He couldn't lose focus on his footing to keep an eye on the perpetrator, so he simply had to hope the other wasn't carrying a gun. His instincts said no, and since they hadn't steered him wrong so far he was inclined to trust it.

He heard the door to the roof slam open and put on a burst of speed, reaching it just as it was starting to swing closed. He was blinded by the light of the midday sun after the dim interior, and thus didn't have a chance to stop his suspect from jumping off the roof.

"He's nuts," Brock gaped. Assuming this was one of the people who'd tried to break in to the electronics store, it wasn't worth jumping for, but as he reached the edge himself he realized that the leap hadn't been a desperate one. There was a daunting distance between here and the building next door, but the suspect had made it, joining with three others and waving to him cheerily from the other side.

Brock stared, trying to figure out what he was looking at even as they moved onward, making another incredible leap to the next rooftop and disappearing from sight. He barely noticed his men crowding up behind him, squinting against the sun for a look.

"Did you see that?"

"What were they?"

People in costume? Monsters? Demons? Brock wasn't entirely sure.

* * *

"Alright, I admit it. That was an awesome idea," Bobby exalted, leaning back against the rail. They were far enough away that he didn't feel especially worried about the police spotting them. "Man, that was close. They almost had us." 

John might have been tempted to tell Bobby that he'd been the source of the idea – ever since that first amazing jump he'd performed back when they'd still been human – but his ego was big enough without that kind of encouragement.

"What about Bends though?" Cooper asked, looking back. "He won't be able to find us now."

"We'll think of something," John assured him. "In the meantime, we'll need to find another hiding spot."

"I dunno if that's gonna be easy, bro," Clint said, looking out over the city. "Take a look."

At first it was hard to figure out what Clint was pointing to, but eventually a pattern of flashing red lights made itself known. The police were blocking off streets and herding people away from the district.

"Damn, they're working fast," Bobby swore. "They must be really keen to find us quick."

"It's the way we look," Cooper said sadly. "They're afraid of us."

"Think it's a bit late to turn ourselves in?" Clint intended it as a joke, but a nervous silence followed in its wake. The sight of policemen carrying guns had been unexpectedly shocking. Clint frowned. "Hey, pull it together guys. We're not done yet."

"Yeah," Bobby managed a confident smile, full of sharp teeth. "I'd love to see them try to take us."

"The police aren't our enemy," John reminded them. "They're only doing their job but if we have to fight out way out we will. Just remember not to hurt them too bad."

"What? Us?" Clint and Bobby exchanged bloodthirsty grins, and John smacked a palm to his temple.

"Yes you. Now look carefully. See that street over there?" He pointed. "That leads right down to the ocean. I bet if we can get to the water we can lose them."

"Sharks in water? Sounds good to me," Bobby said.

"There's a barricade though," Clint observed. They could see two officers guarding a fragile wooden barrier.

"We can get past them," John said. "But it's better to wait until dark. Otherwise we'll be fighting them every step of the way."

Clint sat down, disgruntled. "Damn it. More waiting."

"At least maybe things will have calmed down by evening," Cooper offered uncertainly.

* * *

_Evening…_

As thought to spite his brother's earlier prediction, it seemed like half the town had turned up to watch. The new senses of his shark-half informed him that they were completely surrounded, and he gave a brief, wistful thought to Clint's suggestion that they just hand themselves over.

"Okay guys, are we ready?" John said, doing his best to keep the shake out of his voice. He wasn't afraid, precisely, but fired up with a nervous energy that was almost exhilarating.

"Been ready," Clint grunted. He put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Don't do anything stupid. If you aren't at the barrier in fifteen we're coming back for you."

And they would, no matter how hard he'd been trying to convince them otherwise. John sighed. "Fine. Just take care of them."

He vanished into the dark before either of them had to risk saying goodbye. It was only fifteen minutes, after all. John had to keep the militia distracted long enough for the others to break through the perimeter. He'd considered the possibility from every angle and decided he had the best chance of succeeding. The Great White was one of the few sharks that could call itself a true man eater – the king of the ocean's predators. He just had to let those instincts guide him a little.

On top of that he'd been analyzing the changes that had occurred since their transformation. He'd tested himself in the short hours before dusk, and questioned his brothers for anything strange they'd noticed. They were faster than before now, both in reaction speed and movement, and impervious to certain kinds of damage if Clint punching a bare hand through glass had been any indication. John wasn't completely confident that he could stop a bullet, but maybe a wound like that wouldn't be as serious?

He had the perfect location in mind to test his theories – one that allowed for a few experimental skirmishes along the way. Armored scouts wandered the tight streets, and it was almost too simple to hide in the darkness and wait. They almost walked right past without noticing him, and by the time they did it was too late.

Satisfied, he continued to his ideal location. A larger group, maybe ten people, had stopped to rest on a wider avenue, presenting themselves as an easy target. If he could get in their midst they wouldn't risk their guns – too much chance they'd hit one of their own – and a loud scuffle would undoubtedly draw lots of attention which was exactly what he needed.

He was spotted the moment he left his hiding place. There was a breathless moment where he had to cross the distance to the nearest enemy before they could act. Maybe his appearance gave them pause, or maybe he was even faster than he'd first though, but the guard was only halfway through raising his gun by the time John's fist collided with his temple and then everything exploded into a blur of pandemonium that John was right in the middle in.

Taking them all down was the easy part. Pulling in his strength so he didn't hurt them too badly had been harder. The enhancements were an amazing but terrible thing. He didn't even need light to see anymore. His sense of smell was better than a bloodhound's, and he'd finally figured out that ringing sensation must have been an electromagnetic sense: tracking by motion. He could see their attacks almost before they happened, and move to dodge accordingly.

It was chaos, loud and exciting, and while John didn't take any particular pleasure in rendering them all unconscious, there was a kind of wild thrill to all the action. All too quickly the shouting was silenced, however, leaving him slightly breathless but nearly unharmed and more than a little surprised that he'd come out intact.

Despite that, the silent alarm was ringing again. He had only a split second's warning to figure out that the sense of movement was much closer than he originally guessed before he felt a powerful shock arc over his body, tearing a cry of pain from his throat. He could still act though, and after tearing off the tazer dart the pain faded quickly.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath, staggering slightly. He must have miscounted the number of people, but as he turned to face his attacker he realized that not only had the man not been part of the main unit, but he was very, unpleasantly familiar.

Doctor Luther Paradigm. The man was unmistakable, even with his billowing coat blurring the edges of his form. What was he doing here?

The locked memory broke free of its chains, blinding him with its intensity.

_"Let us go you freak!" Bobby shouted, struggling against the bonds that held him to the table. John had almost given up on hoping to break free. From the look of things, they were made to hold creatures a lot bigger and stronger than them. Like the two ugly monsters that had captured them in the lab. The lobster was guarding the door, clacking its pincers impatiently, while the long nosed one was hovering around the scientist like an excited pet. _

"At least let my brothers go Paradigm," he pleaded. "I'll do whatever you want."

Paradigm laughed. "When I'm finished you'll all do whatever I want." John could see him preparing the needles from the corner of his eye, and he felt sick. "Sorry. No deal."

He wavered in disbelief at the sudden flood of memory. It hadn't been their dad at all. It had been Paradigm from the beginning. All of a sudden, he could see the pattern, perfectly laid out. Paradigm had access to their father's research. He could have stolen the computer; he could have planted evidence to twist the events to his advantage. He even knew the brothers well enough to manipulate them into coming to him.

Bolton had often professed that the man was a genius. He'd managed to fool an entire city.

John saw red, remembering the fear and frustration at being trapped in that lab, the pain of being changed against his will, the horror at what they'd become. Everything he'd said about not killing anyone was thrown from his mind. He was willing to make this one exception.

Paradigm was a dead man.

And evidently smart enough to realize it because he ran back down the alleyway he'd come from. John gave chase, barely aware of what his body was doing. It felt like everything was happening in a blur, but at least he and his shark instincts were in agreement on one point. They had found their prey.

It wasn't until he was half way up the fire escape that the madness eased. The Shark didn't like being so far off the ground, and its uncertainty was enough for John to pull back enough to think. If Paradigm had planned this far, no doubt he had an agenda of his own still. In all probability he wasn't running, he was leading. A trap? But he needed answers, because there were still too many questions that hadn't been answered.

_"What about our dad? What did you do with him?" Cooper asked desperately. _

Paradigm's smirk was wide and content. "I'm afraid your father wasn't making the best use of his research so I decided to appropriate it from him. When he found out he tried to confront me here, and sadly I was forced to dispose of him."

Cooper choked. John could barely breathe as he asked, "Did you kill him?!"

"Why don't you ask me again when I'm finished? If you still care, that is."

By the time he made it to the roof, John was shaking from effort, but rage gave him inexhaustible strength. Up here there was nowhere for either of them to run.

"Enough damage has been done," Paradigm called to him, drawing another pistol from his coat. "It's time to end this, Monster."

"Monster?" John wanted to laugh at the absurdity, but there was nothing funny about any of this. "The only monster here is you."

"Ah, so I see you haven't forgotten." Paradigm seemed pleased. "A shame. That might make the negotiations a bit more difficult."

"I'll kill you," he said, taking a step forward. He'd never expected to say those words and mean it, but he knew beyond a doubt that at the moment he was more than capable of it. Some distant thought wondered if maybe he shouldn't feel more regret, but all he felt was cold.

"Don't be so hasty John. After all, I'm the only one who can help you and your brothers."

John hesitated, a faltered step. If there was one thing that still mattered more than vengeance...it was family. "How?"

"Do you really think the city is going to accept you as you are now? Everywhere you go they will hunt you down, and not everyone will have as much concern for your well being as I do. The best choice for all of you is to surrender to me now."

"That's not true," John growled. "When we tell them what you did--!"

"But will they believe you?" Paradigm asked indulgently. "They will simply assume that you children will stand by your father no matter what has been done to you. Have you not seen how quickly the opinion of the public has changed? In one day, your father turned from community hero to the most despised man in the city, and everyone you know will shun you like the monster you are."

Was it true? Bends had never come back for them, and the speed with which the police had tracked them down had been a bit too quick for his liking. He'd thought maybe Clint or Bobby had been followed, but what if it had been someone else…?

Paradigm must have seen the hesitancy in his posture because his smirk widened. "You see? This is the true face of humanity. They will fear you because you are greater, stronger than they are. You are the future of our species, and they are nothing but small-minded fools who do not realize that the time for change has come."

"People aren't perfect," John admitted grimly. "But I'd side with them any day over a depraved lunatic like you."

Paradigm seemed taken aback. He hadn't expected to be rebuffed so immediately. He eyed the great white, shaking his had sadly. "Such a shame. The four of you were my greatest creations, but it still seems I haven't found the perfect formula yet." His stance lowered in readiness, his single eye narrowed sneeringly. "When I get you back to my lab I'll be sure to stamp that hindering conviction out of you."

"Just try it." He'd already proven that he could take on an ordinary human, but Paradigm seemed far too confident. Was it arrogance, or did he know something John didn't?

Lightning rent the sky in a flash of overpowering brilliance, and as one mind they tried to gain the advantage while the other was distracted. Another tazer dart buzzed through the air, but John dodged it blindly, feeling it do nothing more than clip his skin as it went past, and by then he was too close for Paradigm to even think about a second shot. He grabbed the gun, yanking hard enough to nearly dislocate Paradigm's shoulder as it tore from his grasp. The act filled John with dark satisfaction; whatever ace Paradigm might be hiding, it wasn't able to counter his new strength. The feel of the gun in his hand filled him with an ugly chill, and before it even occurred to him to use the weapon himself he simply crushed it between his hands. It crumpled like paper, and he threw it heedlessly over his shoulder before turning back to his opponent with a vicious grin. "What now Paradigm?"

The Doctor had wisely taken the moment to back up, but he didn't look alarmed. Only determined. "You may be strong, but have you really figured out how to use it?"

John didn't have a moment to wonder about that statement because in the next moment Paradigm flew at him, striking and weaving in a pattern that left John reeling. Paradigm was faster than any human had a right to be, and though the blows were dulled slightly by the shark's tough skin it still _hurt_. Instinct and self-preservation banished any strategy he might have tried to come up with, and black fury took control. As another punch connected he reached out and caught Paradigm's wrist, intending to squeeze until the bone shattered before doing the same to the rest of the Doctor's body--

Well something crunched all right, but it wasn't bone. He could feel the dents he'd created in something that wasn't flesh but metal. Some kind of armor? Paradigm grunted in pain, shoving him backwards with strength that was almost as unnatural as his speed, and in surprise John only managed to catch the cuff of his sleeve before they staggered apart. It tore away easily, and beneath it was revealed a sleek exoskeleton that covered the whole of Paradigm's arm and probably the rest of his body as well.

John eyed it warily. Was that the reason behind Paradigm's uncanny movement? Obviously it was more than simple armor; it looked cumbersome but the Doctor moved like it was merely painted on his skin, though the newly dented area brought a look of annoyance to his face. "I see my power suit didn't quite account for your strength. A pity. Still, it should be enough for one shark."

That first assault had been punishing. John found he couldn't move as freely as he liked, and briefly wondered if his new blue and white skin would show the bruises he could feel forming. "Better make that four." He had to consider the worst-case scenario. It had been a very long two days, and even utter hatred couldn't fight the exhaustion for long. "Even if you take me down you'll still have to worry about my brothers." Though he really hoped that maybe they'd taken their chance at freedom while they could. It wasn't likely though.

Paradigm tilted his head, eyes narrowed with contempt. "You really think they'll be the ones to save you? By now if my other pets haven't already found them, then the team I had waiting down at the exit to the docks surely did."

John couldn't hide his faltering, and Paradigm smirked, continuing ruthlessly, "Of course I figured out which way you would try to run. I made you, after all. You can't fight the instincts you've been imbued with. The shark in you would be drawn to the water and that's exactly what I was expecting. By now your brothers are either captured or dead."

The words echoed dully in his mind, making his hands twitch with the need to crush something again. "You--!"

He knew it was a mistake the moment he lunged, and with surprising quickness John managed to change direction but not before a sharp sting of burning pain whipped across his abdomen. He brushed the area briefly with his hand, and mixed in with the cold rivulets of rain he felt something warm and just as wet. Blood. Barely a graze but alarmingly real. He nearly lost his footing on the slick paving of the roof, and found himself plunging dangerously close to the edge, flailing for balance.

Paradigm smirked widely, tilting the wrist that hadn't been crushed, and in another distant flash of lightning John caught sight of the hooked blade that had shot out unexpectedly to cut him. If he'd been any slower things would have been considerably messier, and the look on his face must have shown as much because Paradigm laughed exultantly. "You can't win. I know your strengths and weaknesses better than you do. Surrender now and we can cease this pointless fight."

"Go to hell!" The Doctor was as much the genius as Bolton had always said, and John was no longer fighting to win, but counting the seconds until he lost. He might just prefer to take his chances with a four-story drop than be taken back as Paradigm's experiment, and his dubious glance over the edge became a longer stare as he took note of exactly what he'd be landing on.

_You've got to be kidding_. But the alternative was worse.

"Sorry Paradigm. If you want a pet project, you can find another volunteer."

The Doctor's look as he jumped was quite priceless, and if that was the last thing he ever saw John didn't think it would have been such a bad deal, but thankfully his jump was true and he landed squarely in the back of the carefully placed truck. The garbage in the tray broke his fall quite admirably, though the breath was knocked out of him and what little air he could intake was nigh intolerable from the stench. Two pairs of hands pulled him up before he had to choke on it though.

"You okay?" Cooper asked, eyes wide and worried.

"Of course he is," Bobby asserted before banging on the top of the cab. "He's in Clint. Step on it."

The truck suddenly lurched into motion, putting an unpleasant strain on John's abused ribs. His muffled groan earned him another look from Cooper but he waved his youngest brother off. "M'fine." He looked around curiously. "Where'd you get the truck?"

"Bends hot wired it for us," Bobby said, picking his way back disdainfully over the garbage. "He caught up to us before we got to the blockade, said he knew a better way to get through it, then armed us up with this baby. Not the cleanest ride, but it'll be able to take some damage."

John sighed, unaccountably relieved. Not captured, not dead, and Bends hadn't abandoned them either. "There's reinforcements at the docks exit. They knew which way we'd run."

Bobby blinked. "How?"

"Paradigm."

"Paradigm?" Bobby echoed. "What's he got to do with it?"

"Long story." One he really didn't want to tell more than once, and Clint wasn't…come to think of it, "Clint's not driving, is he?"

Bobby's grin was wide and innocent, Cooper's a bit more sheepish.

"Oh geeze," John groaned and hung on for dear life, which turned out to be a very good idea as a dull shock resonated from the front of the truck, followed by something crunching unpleasantly underneath the wheels. "Please tell me we didn't just hit someone."

Cooper peered over the back. "Just a trash can." He then turned to the front. "I can see the blockade."

"Then keep your fin down," Bobby hissed, pulling his brother by the arm.

Burrowed down in garbage, John couldn't see what was going on, but he could guess. First the guards would see the truck, bearing down at full speed. After a moment they'd gather their wits and start shooting. Then they'd realize how utterly ineffective bullets were against something that weighed more than a ton and was moving with all the unrelenting speed of a freight train. Then they'd hopefully do the smart thing and get out of the damn way.

It was impossible to miss the collision with the blockade though. The impact was awful, and for a terrifying moment the truck spun on his wheels, threatening to roll, but a sharp tug pulled them back onto the right course. Bobby risked a look up, and whooped. "Alright, we're through!"

Air whistled with the sound of bullets flying, and he belatedly ducked back down as the guards fired a few parting shots at their rear. The back of the truck pinged and dented, but it was a comforting barrier. Nothing got though.

"Are you gonna be okay to swim?" Cooper asked. "Clint's gonna drive this thing right off the pier."

John nodded, wincing only slightly at the movement. Yes he'd make it, though he wouldn't be too happy after this was all over.

"Better get ready then," Bobby told him, leaning over the rim again. "We're about to get wet."

As the tires left solid ground and the world achieved that same, odd sense of weightlessness he'd felt when dropping off the top of the building earlier, John only hoped that these new bodies could actually swim. Otherwise they were in a lot of trouble.

* * *

"And in the aftermath of this terrible ordeal, the city remains uncertain as to the real outcome. Robert Bolton remains at large and the bodies of his sons were irretrievable from the water surrounding Fission City's docks. Will they be back? Is this only the beginning? Mayor Marino is here tonight to give her assurances to the city--" 

"Blah blah blah," Bobby hit the power button vengefully. "Just more of the same junk and Dad still hasn't shown."

"Is that good or bad?" Cooper wondered aloud.

"Who knows?" Bends shrugged, wrapped in a blanket. He'd taken the enforced swim a little harder than the brothers who – as it turned out – swam just fine, and without the added problems of being frozen by the icy water or needed to breathe air. Still, Clint had managed to drag him along and he'd pointed them in the direction of a new hideout. Hopefully this one would last a little longer than the previous one. It even had a TV to keep the brothers occupied, though so far all the news reports had been distinctly useless. Even Paradigm was staying out of the public eye, possibly recovering from the manhunt, though John had freely admitted that he himself had come off the worst in that encounter.

The man – or rather shark – in question was putting on as brave a front as he could while Lena prodded and poked at his injuries, particularly the cut across his stomach. The trip into the garbage truck and then salt water hadn't done them any favors, and she was being extra cautious to make sure they wouldn't become infected.

For the first half an hour Bends had watched her carefully, but she seemed to be taking the whole mutation thing rather well. She'd had some warning in his own disjointed descriptions and a few blurry seconds of footage from the chopper recording the manhunt, but even so the reality was shocking up close.

Bends had already gone home and had his private freak out and was feeling pleasantly anesthetized to the weirdness. He was going to encourage her to do the same when she finished up, but much like Bends she obviously didn't want to leave too soon. Guilt, sympathy, loyalty, and a host of other less identifiable emotions kept them tied here. For Bends, a greater part of it was that he was just too tired to consider moving just yet.

"So what do we do next?" Clint asked. "Don't tell me we're gonna let that creep get away with this."

He didn't really envy John at the moment. They'd all had a rough night, but of course it was the eldest they'd look to for advice even though this situation was above and beyond the call of duty for any person to deal with. John frowned. "Well first of all we're going to lie low for a while." He shot Clint a sharp look when it appeared like he was going to protest. "Everyone in the city is going to be looking for us, and I really don't fancy ending back up in Paradigm's lab."

There was a collective shudder from the brothers. Apparently, those unpleasant memories were starting to return.

"But no," John continued carefully. "We're not going to let him get away with it." He stood carefully, pacing a slow circle. It seemed to help him think. "First of all, he can tell us what happened to Dad. He knows _something_…" Though what that something was, none of them were willing to speculate on. Any way you looked at it, it wasn't good.

"Also, I wanna know what he's up to. He called us experiments, but I don't think that's all he had in mind. There's gotta be something bigger."

Bobby looked dubious. "Like what?"

"Remember those other things he had guarding the lab?" John was at loath to call then 'people'. There had been something not quite right about them. The way they moved and smelled hadn't been human like he and his brothers, but he wasn't sure what to call it. "Those ones were loyal to him. Now imagine if he had more like that."

Cooper blanched. It wasn't a pretty thought. "But what would he do with them?"

"Don't know." John shrugged, but the question was obviously eating at him to. "We'll need to find out, but only after things have cooled down a bit. Until then we're staying underground."

"What about…" Lena looked as though her own voice had startled her, more so when she suddenly found herself the center of attention, but managed to continue, "Changing you back?"

There was a moment of strained silence. John sighed, reaching absently into his pocket. Against the odds, the formula sheet he'd stolen from Paradigm's lab was still there, and that paper was worth its weight in gold because it had survived its ocean dunking and held the ink miraculously well. "I don't know Lena. This kind of gene-splicing is…I would have thought it was impossible. The only people who could possible undo it are Dad and Paradigm." And the latter certainly wasn't telling. John also didn't want to mention the distinct possibility that there simply wasn't a cure. He doubted that hadn't been Paradigm's primary concern when he'd changed them the first time.

Ignorance was bliss. Better to let them hope for the best.

Lena, however, gave John a sidelong look. She had been working in the university's science division long enough, and probably knew him well enough, to suspect. Her expression promised her silence, and for that he was grateful.

"Guess we can't do anything until we find Dad then," Coop said, carefully navigating them out of that dark line of thought.

"Right," Bobby agreed. "And I say, if we're stuck like this, we might as well learn to enjoy it. At least some of us retained our looks." He beamed at his reflection in the blank TV screen.

Clint snorted. "Could your ego possibly be any bigger?"

"Could you be any more jealous?"

"Hey guys!" This would normally have been the point where Bends would physically intervene between the two, but given that they were now a lot bigger than he was he settled for a distraction. "If we're talking strategy I've got a great idea."

That earned him an intrigued look from Bobby, and a more wary one from Clint who knew better. Bends' great ideas were a little inconsistent in their brilliance. "Oh?"

"Well the first thing is to find you guys a place to stay out of sight, yeah? I've got a perfect place in mind."

That was enough to make Bobby a little more cautious. You didn't find perfect places for creatures like them. "Where?"

Bends smiled serenely and grappled with his backpack, pulling out the map he'd scavenged earlier when he and Lena had been talking about places the boys could hide. "You're gonna love this," he promised, spreading the paper on the floor so they could all see. "John had the right idea about staying 'underground'…"

* * *

_Sorry about the wait on this one guys, but remember, reviews help keep the inspiration flowing!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note**: I would like to add a special note of appreciation to my co-writer, Luna, who betaed this chapter in a rush because I'm terribly impatient. Much thanks hun!

**Edit: **I don't know what went wrong with the paragraps, but I've fixed them now. did something funny.

* * *

**Chapter 4 -** **Why is a raven like a writing desk?**

The gate had been threaded with chains and padlocks, barred off with molding crates and cardboard boxes, and left to idle in the dark and silence, home only to a thriving nest of rats. When its tranquility was invaded by bleak beams of light and the low rumble of voices and footsteps, there was a frantic flurry of activity. The rodents possessed the uncanny realization that their home would not withstand the force that was heading unerringly in its direction.

Albeit slowly, and with much complaining. "Oh ew. I am so glad I can't see what I just stepped in."

"Suck it up bro," Clint said. "At least this isn't the sewers."

"Well the steam tunnels aren't much cleaner. Yuck." Bobby's voice was loaded with disgust.

Cooper deliberately changed the subject. "We're almost there, right Bends?"

"Hmm." There was a ruffle of paper, and a huge map expanded in the blond's arms. Lights danced on its surface, doing the best they could to illuminate the faded print. "Should be just ahead…uh, hang on. That's not supposed to be there."

Their flashlights found the gate in all its rusted, immobile glory. John pushed against it experimentally, the outline of deep blue skin carved monstrously in shadow. True, Bends was getting used the way the four brothers looked now, but in such stark lighting they all looked as strange and fearsome as they had on that first day.

"We can probably break through it," John said. "Come on guys."

They could also see a lot better in the dark than he could, and Bends had to resist the urge to jump as he felt rather than saw them sliding past him. He offered them a shaky grin that probably went unnoticed anyway. "I think I'll just sit back and watch. You guys are much better at the heavy lifting now anyway."

"Gee, thanks a lot Bends," Bobby grumbled, putting his shoulder to the barrier.

"On three," John ordered.

With one decisive push, the gate gave way with surprising ease, leaving the brothers staggering not to just fall on their faces.

Clint recovered first. "Man, I keep forgetting how strong we are now. I probably could have done that myself."

"If you'd actually done any of the work just now, maybe I'd believe it," Bobby told him, irritated.

Cooper was already looking past the wreckage of the gate. "Is this is?"

"Yep." The space ahead was a few shades above being in total darkness, just light enough to get around without a touch. Bends stowed his in his bag, picking his way cheerfully over the crates and jumping down the short drop to the floor level. "Home sweet home."

"Home?" Bobby echoed incredulously. "It's a dump."

The wide room had originally been intended as the basement level of a maintenance station that had never seen completion, and as such there were crumbling, unfinished walls, discarded scaffolding, and more than a few drafty holes in the ceiling. Not exactly as impressive as Bobby had hoped.

"It's a fixer-upper," Bends conceded. "But beggars can't be choosers. You need a place to hide out until things cool down top side, and I can guarantee you no one will find you here."

"No one except the rats," Bobby observed.

"At least you'll fit right in," Clint sniped.

"Would you two cool it for a bit?" John said, exasperated. Truthfully, he actually had a soft spot for rats. He thought fleetingly of his own pet, Hilary, and hoped Lena had managed to check on her. With all the mess they'd gone though, it had been a few days since he'd been home to feed her.

"It's not too bad," Cooper offered. At least one of them needed to stay optimistic. "I'm sure when we've cleaned the place up a bit, it'll be great."

"Add a few creature comforts and you'll never want to leave," Bends agreed. The thought of the project filled him with glee. It was no secret that Bends liked to make things, and turning the place into something habitable would be an interesting challenge. He already had half a dozen ideas he couldn't wait to try out…but it was too easy to get ahead of himself. This wasn't a job for one person.

"I don't suppose you guys have any DIY experience do you?" The brothers looked at him unhelpfully. "Fixing stuff around the house? Anything more complicated than changing a light bulb?" More blank stares. He sighed deeply. "Alright, this may take a while."

Clint snorted. "Well it's not like we've got anywhere else to be."

"Don't be so sure," John said darkly. "What about Paradigm?"

An electrified spark jolted through the brothers, fascinating and alarming to witness. The name was spat like poison.

"You guys aren't serious about taking him on, are you?" Bends said, pushing up his headband uncertainly. "He'd got everyone convinced you're the bad guys, and even the mayor is under his thumb. The whole city is on his side."

John eyed him sharply. "And you think things should stay that way?"

"Well, no." Bends shifted nervously. "But you should be careful. He's got the big guns and we've got the water pistols, you know?"

"But we're the only ones who know what he's really up to," Cooper pointed out.

"The man's got a few screws loose, but he's still dangerous," Bobby added. "The city's just a nice, easy target for him."

"Sooner or later, he's gonna slip up," John finished. "If we can expose him, then Dad can come out of hiding and he can change us back."

"And some payback would sure be nice," Clint smirked. "We have a plan for that already."

Bends stared warily. "You do? Since when?"

John waved him off. "Since yesterday, but depending on what Lena finds out, it may not work."

"You sure it was a good idea to get her involved?" Bends asked. "If Paradigm finds out she knows about you guys…" He let it hang but the implications were obvious.

"I trust her judgment," John said easily. "If she can give us the inside story on what he's up to we can stay one step ahead of him. Hopefully that'll be enough."

* * *

"Well that didn't take very long at all," Lena muttered to herself, surveying the office that had once belonged to Luther Paradigm. Seemed the Professor was moving on to bigger, better things now that he had the Mayor's ear. As the only remaining expert available to counter the supposed 'Bolton threat', Fission City's council was more than willing to accede his every desire, including a brand new laboratory in the city center.

Even if she hadn't known the man was crooked, she might have started to suspect. Oh, he played the part of civil servant very well. For someone she'd always known to be socially abrasive, he was an amazing actor. It made her wonder how long he'd been hiding his real feelings, his real agenda. What even made a person like that?

There was no real point in stopping to wonder. Bends had worked his spell on her keycard to get her through the door, but now it was up to her own detective work to figure out what the doctor was planning. Everything in his office was already packed up and ready for transport, and she'd never been more grateful for the doctor's precise nature; everything was neatly sorted and labeled.

Still, she might have had trouble figuring out what to look for, but as a lab assistant she already knew the value in research. Detective Michael Brock had come back to interview her a second time about Doctor Bolton, and it was easy enough to pose a few innocent questions about his work.

_"The easiest way to track someone down is their bank accounts," he'd told her with a smile. "The world runs on money as much as we'd like to think otherwise. All you have to do is follow it."_

The box marked 'Financial Records' was sitting right on top of the stack, like a gift. With one last, nervous strain of her hearing to make sure no one was coming, she pulled it open and began shuffling through it, looking for anything that stood out. All the top sheets were University pay slips, identical to the ones she got herself, and were of little interest. Then there was a delivery bill for some place called the Meshinda Institute, which she'd never heard of. Car repair, textbook sale, supermarket receipt, another delivery for the Meshinda Institute.

She took a second look at it. The logo in the corner was strangely familiar; red and black, circular, with an inner design of geometric shapes that looked kind of like a stylized fish. Hadn't John mentioned something about Paradigm's other creatures carrying a symbol like that? The resemblance might only be passing, but perhaps it was Paradigm's idea of a little joke. Whatever the Meshinda Institute was, it probably belonged to him.

She flipped quickly though the rest, looking out for the logo. All of them were delivery receipts for various pieces of equipment. Lab equipment. Excitedly, she memorized the address before carefully placing everything back the way she'd found it. In all likelihood, the Meshinda Institute was a backup Laboratory for Paradigm's more unsavory experiments and, if so, John would want to know about it.

Satisfied that she hadn't left a trace, she slipped quietly out of the office, making sure the door locked behind her. All clear. She breathed a sigh of relief, smoothed out her coat, and headed for the door, only to nearly run into Paradigm in the corridor.

"Doctor," she greeted reflexively, startled. Surely the guilt must be showing on her face? For a moment she thought she would give herself away under his hard glare, but clenching her hands in her pockets, she steeled herself and tried for a weak smile. "Back so soon? I thought you'd moved out of your office already."

The look he gave her seemed to linger too long, and for a moment she thought he suspected, but his gaze wandered when she didn't back down. "I had to come back for a few more boxes. It's amazing the kinds of trivialities one collects, and it's never certain when they might actually come in handy."

He sounded so…normal. Normal for him anyway. She almost forgot to be afraid of him. "It's a shame you're leaving. The place is going to be rather empty until they can find a decent replacement."

The smile he gave her was unusually fond. "They'll be hard pressed, I'm afraid. In spite of things, I can freely admit that Robert was a spectacular teacher. His students loved him. I never quite managed to inspire the same level of devotion." His expression faded. "A wonder, how quickly the wheels of fate turn."

Paradigm had obviously missed his calling in a theatric career. Even Lena almost doubted for a moment, but all too quickly the Doctor turned back to business. "Actually Lena, I wondered if I might have a word with you. As it seems your presence here is superfluous without any teachers to organize, perhaps I could offer you another employment opportunity at my new office?"

Seeing her surprised expression he quickly added, "On a part time basis, if you prefer. I'd just forgotten how much trouble it is, breaking in a new lab assistant. I've yet to find anyone with skills to your equal, and wondered if perhaps it isn't more efficient for us to simply continue working together."

At least on that point she could believe him. Paradigm had terrified every other worker before her, much to Bolton's bemusement. His inter-city office would be in the public eye as long as Bolton was a threat, and thus it wasn't very likely to be a trick or a trap. Of course working with Paradigm had never been a pleasure – he was a demanding task master, quick to criticize – and the university was her love…but this was a golden opportunity and she was willing to make that sacrifice.

"I'd love to."

* * *

Light and water were the two barest of essentials that couldn't be done without. Bends trusted John to take care of the former, while he himself was up to his ankles in a slimy pool of ooze, trying to coax the rusty pipes to reconnect to the rest of the water grid. It was really quite an artistic process, stealing other unused pipes from the rest of the steam tunnels, before adding them to his winding creation that was slowly weaving towards the mains.

"The roof is probably gonna leak when it rains," Clint said dourly, staring at the ceiling without enthusiasm as he paced. Staying still was a continuous struggle against the Shark's instincts that he didn't really feel like bothering with. "And sleeping down here is going to suck until we find a way to keep the rats out."

"I'll get you a cat," Bends muttered distractedly, tightening bolts and soldering metal to make sure nothing would leak when the time came for it to perform its job. "We'll just take it one problem at a time dude."

"We don't have anything _but_ time," his friend retorted. Personally, Bends didn't think he had much call to complain. Unlike Bobby and Cooper who were hauling the trash out, Clint had landed himself the cushy job of helping Bends which didn't involve more than bending a few of the purloined pipes when they didn't fit the shape the mechanic-come-plumber was aiming for. The unreal act of strength barely registered as an iota of effort, but Clint had always been under motivated. More so now when the only thing he wanted to do was go out and tear Paradigm's face off.

"What's happening with the shop?" he asked suddenly.

Suspended Reality, the comic book store they'd founded together, was his pride and joy, not to mention a sweet piece of income. Bends worked multiple jobs – mainly because he had a plethora of expensive hobbies, but also because he enjoyed keeping busy – but Clint had been coasting along quite happily for the last year, tending the store from middays till closing and then enjoying his own wicked pastimes. All the Bolton brothers were extremists in their own way; Clint's favorite adrenalin rush was nighttime street racing.

"Closed for personal reasons," Bends mumbled, holding the wrench between his teeth as he shifted the next pipe into place. "I can probably afford to take another couple of days off, but after that I'll need to get back to it. And find someone to take your shifts."

Only until he was changed back, Clint reminded himself to suppress the irrational surge of jealousy that someone else was going to be running his baby. Then he had a thought. "What about Jets? He mentioned he might be interested once."

Bends seemed to be concentrating very hard on his work. "Jets went back to stay with his folks for a while."

Clint blinked a bit. "Oh. Is he--?"

"He's still in shock about the whole thing," Bends admitted. "I haven't seen him since the manhunt. We're," a pause, "not really talking at the moment."

The hammerhead was staring in earnest now. "Why?"

He, Bends and Jets had graduated together and been inseparable the whole time since. Fighting, other than the requisite roughhousing between friends, was a bizarre concept.

"I've been with you guys most of the time," Bends pointed out reasonably. "And he doesn't know that. But with you gone and me spending most of my time elsewhere…"

Clint swore under his breath. "You think we should tell him?"

It didn't sit right, having Jets left out like that, however good the reasons. They'd been covered at length last night, and Bends was quick to remind him. "It's safer if he doesn't know. John was right about that, and you know how Jets is. He can get a little…enthusiastic." He allowed Clint a beat to snort in amusement before adding more seriously, "He'd want to confront someone about it. And you know he used to be in Paradigm's classes. He thinks the man is pure gold. I'm not sure how he'd take being told otherwise."

"He liked my Dad too," Clint pointed out a little acidly.

"Yeah, but he doesn't really see your Dad all that often, whereas up until a week ago he'd been Paradigm's best student for the third year running."

Scholastic prowess wasn't something Clint had ever really picked from Jets during high school – they'd both spent too much time playing around to achieve more than passing grades – but college had really turned Jets around. It was all a matter of doing what he really wanted, channeling that enthusiasm into the right venues, and from the beginning he'd been earning top grades and scholarships offers left and right. Clint had felt absurdly proud of those achievements, and Jets himself, and there'd been nothing more than playful riffs when Clint had decided the university scene bored him to tears and had dropped out to pursue something a bit more lucrative (and far less demanding).

"I knew it!" Bobby's voice carried loudly in the cavernous space. Clint turned to see his younger brother pointing an accusing claw in his direction. "I knew you were slacking off again, you bastard."

"Our parents were married," Clint observed sweetly.

"We've been slaving away to clear out all this garbage for hours, and all you've been doing is sitting on your ass, and I'm not touching another damn thing until you start pulling your weight. Coop, get over here. We're going on strike."

Bobby flopped down, looking decidedly disgruntled. Coop followed his lead, although it looked like he was more interested in placating Bobby than any real objection to the uneven workload. Both of them were dirty, streaked with grime and a host of other things best left unidentified.

Bobby groaned, brushing ineffectually at his pants. "At least tell me we'll have a working shower by the end of the day."

"Maybe a cold one," Bends offered. "But I'm working on it."

"Lena said she'd try and get some of our stuff this afternoon," Coop added. Work suited him better than it did Bobby, so he didn't seem quite so disheartened. "You could have a change of clothes at least."

"I guess that'd do," Bobby muttered. He would have liked to keep up the complaints, but it was oddly shameful to have their youngest brother as the only voice of optimism. Coop didn't deserve his cynical attitude. Propping himself up a bit he glared mildly at Clint, but his tone was lighter. "Well I hope you're happy that we've done all the work. Now there's plenty of space. Don't know what we're going to do with it all though. Can't exactly go out furniture shopping, can we?"

Bends paused in the act of fitting another pipe. "Actually.…"

Bobby stared. "What?"

"I have some ideas on that front too." Bends smiled mysteriously. "How would you guys like to go out for a bit?"

That was definitely met with interest; straightened postures, bright eyes, flexing muscles. 'Out' was a magical word at the moment. Anything that got them out of the dark, vermin infested tunnels.

"Really?"

"Where?"

"Right now?"

"Yep!" He pulled himself away from his work, wiping his hands on a grease towel. "I don't think they'll be much risk of you being seen, and it's not all that far from here really."

Bends was willing to bet that the brothers didn't have more than the vaguest idea of where their new home was in the overall scheme of things, but Bends did. They'd probably be surprised by how central it was to a number of significant locations, like the one he was about to lead them to.

"It's gonna mean a bit more heavy lifting though," he warned. "And you'd better tell John first."

The former didn't seem to even register on Bobby and Cooper who were already enthusiastically moving to track their eldest brother down. Clint was a bit more sedate, waiting for Bends with an inquisitive look at the hold up.

In response, Bends kicked the mess of pipes to prove their sturdiness, and then turned a small, unremarkable wheel on the wall. There was an unearthly groaning, shuddering sound, followed by the much more satisfying splashing of water in the pipes. A nearby tap spluttered with an unhealthy wash of brown, murky water that slowly became clearer until it looked clean enough to drink. Clint smirked as Bends turned it off.

"One problem at a time," the blond repeated, sharing the grin.

* * *

It was hard to judge how far they'd walked underground, but Cooper counted off at least fifteen minutes of walking before the inevitable complaints started.

"You sure you're not lost dude?" Clint asked, eyeing the haphazard labyrinth of tunnels dubiously. "You didn't bring the map."

"I don't need it," Bends said, swinging his torch in tune with his jaunty step. "I've explored this way a time or two."

"You spend your free time down here?" Bobby asked incredulously. "You know, I could give you a few tips on managing your social life."

Clint snorted. "As if he'd want any tips from you."

Cooper automatically pushed between them, deftly blocking Bobby's punch before it connected with Clint's shoulder. "We're almost there, right?" he asked plaintively.

"It's just down this way. Check it," Bends pointed. 'It' turned out to be thick grate embedded into the wall at the end of the corridor, but moving with surety, Bends simply tugged at it until it came loose. The screws had been removed long ago, leaving clear passage to the room on the other side, except for one minor detail.

Bends looked between the hole and the brothers, gauging the comparative sizes and scratching his head sheepishly. "You know, I remembered this hole being bigger."

"No way my fin's fitting through that," Bobby said, crossing his arms. Bends hadn't really taken into consideration the fact that the brothers were now a lot bigger in both bulk and height. A human could climb though with a bit of squeezing, but a mutant? Not so much.

"Well maybe you can--" Bends made a demonstrative, enlarging movement with his hands.

Clint stepped up to the wall, eyeing it dubiously. "It looks pretty sturdy."

He tried anyway. Instead of concrete like the rest of the tunnels, this wall was tarnished steel like the grate. The hammerhead pulled at it, feeling the metal give a resounding groan but not quite give way.

He grunted with effort. "Stupid…wall…arg!" What came next was entirely instinct – it certainly wouldn't have occurred to the human part of his brain – but sharks didn't have hands or arms. Their only real tactile sense was their mouth, and before he stopped to think about it Clint bit down on the edge of the hole, getting for a feel for the toughness of it while his razor sharp teeth pitted new weaknesses in the surface.

Bobby grimaced a bit. "Nice."

Clint let it go and started pulling again. "Shut it." Surprisingly, it tore much easier after that, and he managed to widen the hole by another two feet. He stopped for a moment to reflect. "You know, that wasn't nearly as gross as it should have been."

"Guess sharks aren't very picky," Bends observed, looking at the jagged bite mark cautiously, but he now hand plenty of room to step though and even Cooper's broad shoulders fit with a bit of contorting. Brushing off some of the grime from the tunnels, he turned with a grin. "I bet you guys can't guess where we are."

Bobby looked around. He couldn't see anything except a dozen, formless uninteresting shapes draped with mismatched sheets, but the stagnant smells of cloth and wood were pretty overwhelming. "Is this where the dust bunnies come to die?"

"This," Bends continued, with light glare, "is the basement level of the University's library."

Clint scratched his head. "The library doesn't have a basement." Otherwise there would have been much less complaining about the overstuffed bookshelves and the cramped work desks from Jets.

"Oh it does." Bends grinned. "Or it was supposed to, but the budget ran out before they finished down here and since then it's just been used for storage. Most of it is from classroom renovations, but three generations of teachers have been secretly stowing their stuff down here too."

He dragged a nearby sheet down with a flourish, revealing what was underneath. Clint blinked. "Woah."

An antique wardrobe, carved in mahogany with brass trimming on the doors. Beside it was a full length mirror stand, cracked a little in one corner, but otherwise in perfect condition.

"I figured a few people probably moved house, left their stuff down here to save on movers bills and then just forgot about it. There's one of just about everything down here. Tables, couches, maybe even a bed or two. We can just sneak it back to your hideout and no one will ever know."

"Dibs on the mirror," Bobby said quickly, pulling it out so he could admire it – or maybe his reflection – more easily.

Clint dragged down another sheet, a tall stack of boxes marked with smudged labels like 'plates' and 'utensils'. His eyes gleamed a little; they were the metaphorical kids in the candy store, with the doors thrown open and everything declared free. "Oh man, we're gonna have too much to carry."

The older two were getting right into the spirit of the idea, but Cooper was frowning, his spots seeming to ripple with unease as he tenuously said, "But isn't this kind of like stealing?"

There was an uncertain pause from the other three as they considered that new, unexpected angle of thinking. The thought hadn't even entered Bends's mind, and he blamed the fact that he was still operating in crisis mode; all the normal rules were suspended until the world started making sense again.

"Well…" he paused awkwardly, thinking. The resurgence of a concept that should have been natural left him reeling, but it wasn't enough to deter him. They _needed_ this stuff, and he knew in his bones that it wouldn't be missed, but he wasn't sure how to convey that in a way that wouldn't sound unscrupulous. It felt disturbingly like he was about to corrupt his own little brother. Thankfully, Bobby and Clint had far more practice at that, and stepped in to rescue him from floundering

"Listen Bro," Bobby put an arm around Cooper's shoulder, remarkably intent for a change. "We don't like it either, but at the moment we don't have a whole lot of choices. Lena and Bends might be able to snag a few personal items for us, but they can't exactly start hauling furniture into the steam tunnels because that's gonna get noticed real quick, and you can bet Paradigm's watching them."

"We'd be putting them at risk," Clint confirmed. "And if Bends is right, this stuff belongs to people who aren't coming back for it anyway. We just take what need so we're not sleeping on the floor and eating off our laps, kay?" With a twisted smile he added, "Trust me, I did that when I first moved out, and it's not even slightly fun."

"And I'll keep an ear out in case anyone comes looking for their stuff," Bends chimed in. "That way we can return it before they even realize it was moved. It's not like we're intending to keep it forever. We're just…borrowing for a while. We can totally bring it back once everything blows over. No keeping."

Cooper digested those arguments slowly, but no one was willing to rush him, and they were finally rewarded with a weak smile. "Well okay."

Bobby slapped him heartily on the back. "Atta boy. Now lets figure out how we're going to get this stuff back through the tunnels."

They brothers resumed their exploration, while Bends reflected uneasily that they'd just crossed the first of many lines to come.

* * *

"Having fun?" Lena asked, watching John wobble perilously on top of a stack of crates while he fiddled with the lights.

"Just like the light bulb experiment in high school science," John dryly repeated back Bends's words. He'd been almost willing to believe that until he'd seen the mess of wires he was expected to connect. "Tell me you have good news."

She smiled, the crimson gloss of her lipstick flashing in the light of the gas lantern. "I have good news and better new. Good news is I managed to get into your Dad's house. Had to sneak under the crime scene tape but I did find those books you wanted."

"Lena, you're a life saver." John jumped down from his perch, accepting the heavy bag she'd been carrying and digging through it excitedly. The thick tomes of genetic theories and formulas were handled with reverence.

She peered curiously over his shoulder. "What are they for?"

"I was hoping they might help me figure out this," he said, offering her a slip of creased paper that had obviously seen better days. As she read through it he explained, "I took it from Paradigm's lab the first time we were there. I think it's part of the formula he used to change us."

"It's what Doctor Bolton was working on, isn't it?" she asked softly.

John frowned. "Dad didn't intend for it to be used like this. The gene-slamming technique was supposed to be used to introduce advantageous genetic traits to help protect endangered species, but this?" John gestured to himself and sneered. "Paradigm's twisted his research into something else entirely."

Although she moved cautiously, he appreciated her light touch on his arm. "I know your father John. He wouldn't have let Paradigm do this if he'd known."

"That's what worries me," he admitted grimly. "Who knows how long Paradigm's had those creatures with him. If Dad had confronted Paradigm on his own…"

He hadn't dared to speculate with his brothers, but Lena wasn't as close to the issue. She understood. "I don't think he's dead."

John sighed. "I don't know what to think. I guess we won't know unless Paradigm gives us a straight answer."

"Speaking of which, did you want the better news?" She offered him a folder, filled with her hasty compilation of any articles related to the Meshinda Institute. "I think I found what we're looking for."

John beamed. "I've mentioned we owe you, right?" Eagerly he flipped though the papers, nodding in satisfaction. "Perfect. We can use this."

"There's something else too," she said. "Paradigm's offered me a job at his new lab. Looks like you don't have to worry about finding a way to spy on him there."

He paused, lowering the folder as he gazed at her uncertainly. "Lena, are you sure--?"

"Positive," she asserted. "The man's a criminal John. We just need to find the kind of proof no one can argue with, and if that means I have to smile at his face every day then so be it." With a small, ironic smile she added, "It's not like I don't have a lot of practice at that."

He watched her for a moment longer, seeming to gauge her resolve before looking away. "If you're sure…I can't say we don't need all the help we can get. Just promise me you'll be careful."

"Of course." The mood was a little too sober, and despite every good intention she wasn't sure how well she'd be able to keep that promise, so she deflected the tension by asking, "Now where's everybody else? It's never this quiet around you boys."

"Bends is keeping them out of trouble." From the dubiousness in his voice she picked up the unspoken, _I hope_. "I thought I heard something about furniture but I don't know where they'd get it from, or how they'd sneak it down here without being seen."

"I'm sure Bends knows what he's doing." Her tone implied, _or else_, which made him grin. "Now did you want some help with the lights? It's been a while since high school, but I'm pretty sure I got an A on that light bulb experiment."

He chuckled. "That's better than me. I think I was sick the day we had to do that one, and since I'm pretty sure getting an electrician down here is out of the question, your expertise is the best we've got."

"At least until Bends gets back," she amended. "Which better be soon if you guys want me to bring something for dinner. Is pizza okay with you?"

He made a despairing face. "Please, anything but that."

* * *

Bends was a child of the technological age. He couldn't conceive a time before television, had never lived in a house without the internet, and there probably wasn't a problem that his mobile phone couldn't somehow solve, and therefore he could not send the brothers home in good faith without a computer.

"Bends," Bobby said in the slow, patient tone used on children. "We don't even have _lights _yet. We don't need a computer."

Bends looked scandalized. "Of course you do! What kind of self respecting groups of freedom fighters would be without one?"

"Freedom what?" Bobby grumbled. "We're more like escaped convicts at the moment."

"It's all a matter of perception," Bends told him with a grin. "But look, I've got about six computers worth of hardware sitting in my office. Just let me go grab a few things and we'll go, okay?"

"Dude, you're just looking for an excuse to create that super-computer you've always raved about." Clint swatted at him playfully. "Fine, go get your geek on, but keep it quick okay?"

"I'm already there," Bends flicked his hand in a quick salute, dashing towards the stairs and taking them two at a time. The University was still bustling with activity, and so he had to take care not to be seen coming out of the basement. It was understood that Bends had access to almost everything, seeing how no faculty was immune to broken copy machines and network failures, but he thought the librarian might have a few questions about what he was doing in the basement and why was he trampling dust into her nice, clean carpets.

The closely stacked shelves provided the perfect cover to hide behind, and he managed to escape with only one or two odd looks at the messy state of his clothing. His office was only a short jog away – administration, the library and the research labs were all housed in the same building since the senior staff usually needed access to all three, and of course his priority was to make their lives easier by keeping it all working. Considering the importance of his task, one would think he deserved a bit more than a converted broom closet to work in, but he didn't really spend much time there anyway. It was just a place to store stuff, including the half a dozen mismatched boxes of computer parts that he really needed to sort out one of these days.

Clint was right about his dreams of a super computer, but at the moment all he had to work with was stuff that was either outdated or broken. He doubted he'd be able to come up with anything impressive on his first try, but like all his more adventurous projects, he imagined it would be a work in progress.

Pulling down everything he thought he'd need, he suddenly wished for mutant strength of his own. The brothers make hauling furniture around look like a piece of cake, where as one small box of computer parts left him with the staggering need for a chiropractor. At least it was a comforting camouflage. No one questioned a man with his arms full of hardware moving with a purpose.

Although his purpose was momentarily derailed by an unexpected road block right outside the library; one he hadn't counted on meeting again any time soon.

"Doctor Paradigm?"

Surprise had usurped control of his mouth, though he desperately wished he could recall the words as the tall man turned, his hand still resting on the book return chute. His single eye seemed to home in on Bends like a sniper's scope. "Brandon," he greeted stiffly, a thin coat of politeness covering up layers of distaste.

The two of the had never really been on friendly terms despite Bends' close association with everyone else in the genetics department. Paradigm had a rather aggravating habit of simply staring though people he considered beneath his notice, and that included anyone involved in the 'menial' aspect of the University's upkeep. Not to mention the only other person who called Bends by his first name was his Grandmother, who was as mad as a hatter.

Right now it was all Bends could do not to spit in the man's face, but he did his best to tone it down to his usual level of wary cheeriness. How had Lena managed this? "I didn't expect to see you still here," he said cautiously. "Lena told me you moved out this morning."

"I had a few books to return." Paradigm gave him a sharp, probing look that mad Bends uncomfortably aware that his hands were full and in to easy position to defend himself. "Actually, I was hoping to have a word with you before I left…about your last conversation with the Bolton boys."

Bends almost _did_ drop the box. "Er…what's to say?" He tried to manage a grin that probably looked like more of a grimace. "I haven't talked to them since before they disappeared, and like I told the police they didn't say anything about their dad."

"Really?" Something changed in Paradigm's demeanor, but Bends couldn't figure out what it was. "Never mind then. I was simply curious."

The curiosity of a genius was something he could live without. What was Paradigm getting at? Bends had been careful not to give any clues about where he'd been during the last few days, and Lena had been his alibi during the first day. The only part he couldn't account for he'd claimed to have been out visiting the brothers' houses individually, when he had in fact been answering John's confused phone call--

--after leaving a note on Lena's desk--

--which she hadn't found because it had mysteriously disappeared--

--and Paradigm was the only other person who had likely been through her office--

--fuck.

Had he been caught out on the lie? How much would Paradigm figure out from that? He was suddenly reminded that the brothers were still waiting, cluelessly, no more than thirty feet from where he was standing, give or take a floor, and it was definitely not a good idea to stick around and give Paradigm any more ammunition to guess with.

"Well I guess I'll see you 'round Doctor," Bends babbled hastily, hedging towards the door. He briefly toyed with the idea of mentioning this little encounter to Clint, but that was just asking for the hammerhead to come up here and try something crazy in the name of vengeance. No, better to keep this to himself and just get out as quickly as possible.

He ran into someone on the threshold of the library door – strawberry blonde, did she seem familiar? – but he was too nervous to stay anywhere in Paradigm's vicinity to toss more than a quick apology over his shoulder as her books tumbled chaotically to the floor. He didn't even turn back as she stared helplessly at her scattered belongings that people were already stepping over and on, nor when she let our a short shriek of impotent fury at his retreating back.

"Plebian," Paradigm muttered venomously as he leaned over to pick up the precious books. "Here, let me help. Some people just have no respect for learning."

"Uh," she stared, unused to any kind of aid, especially from someone so important looking who obviously had other places to be. His long arms and quick fingers had the stack ordered and back in her stunned arms in moments. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Miss…?"

And asking for her name too. Her clumsy mouth failed her for a moment before she could blurt, "Gabrielle. Gabrielle Mason."

"Miss Mason." He smiled, and it took years off his face. The eye-patch didn't look nearly so formidable. "That's quite an impressive reading list you have there. Are you working on a thesis?"

"Oh no!" She ducked her head a little, eyes hidden by her bangs. "I'm just a sophomore…but the course work is kind of slow this semester."

"It's always a pleasure to see hungry young minds at work." He eyed her books interestedly, and she found that she didn't mind his gaze. "Mechanical Engineering Major? These look a bit advanced for second year."

"They're not that difficult." He raised his eyebrow she hastily babbled, "I mean the theories aren't that complex, but I haven't really had a chance to try much in practice yet. There's been budget problems and equipment breakdowns and you can't really do much without a properly working lab, but I thought going over everything one more time wouldn't hurt--" She had to bite her tongue to shut up. This man obviously wasn't interested in her tedious little problems, except that he looked intrigued.

"This University has been my home for the last decade, and while I have certainly enjoyed the accumulation of knowledge it's provided me I can't claim it doesn't have its share of…problems." He looked her in the eye, rummaging in his coat pocket. "Unfortunately since they Mayor has asked for my assistance on another matter, I'm afraid it is no longer in my power to influence things here, but perhaps the next time you find yourself wanting for something more challenging you could give me a call?"

He handed her a small, glossy card. The name 'Doctor Luther Paradigm' was printed neatly along the top, along with a strange angular logo that advertised the name, 'Meshinda Institute'. "As it happens I'm attempting something of a Think Tank with young, bright individuals such as yourself. Although my primary field is genetics, I've recently been thinking about branching out into other sciences. Perhaps we could teach each other?"

"Yes…" She stared, mesmerized at the card before realizing that something a little more articulate was in order. "I mean, I'd like that."

"Excellent!" He seemed so pleased that she couldn't help but grin back a little, though the unusual expression felt strange on her face. "Then I shall hope to hear from you soon, Miss Mason."

Even after he was gone, the card felt warm in her hand.

* * *

When they had four lights that worked (though one of them had a tendency to flicker), it was high time for a well deserved break. Of the few things Lena had managed to grab from John's apartment, the tiny, battery operated TV had been high on the list, because radio didn't seem to work so far underground and John needed some method of keeping tabs on their situation. Every news station was reiterating the story with slight variations but the outline was always the same.

Everyone thought Robert Bolton was guilty.

Everyone thought the brothers were dangerous monsters.

Although at least on that score, the theories tended to be kinder. To most, they were the tragic victims, or the unwilling accomplices, but to the less credible networks they were sometimes the gleeful experiments, just as insane as their father supposedly was. Every time those stories rolled, John had to resist the urge to smash something, and even Lena, sitting primly on a nearby crate, wore a dark expression that rarely saw use.

"We're just the latest media sensation," John grumbled, arms crossed as he tried not to pace. It seemed to make Lena nervous. "They wouldn't know the truth if it bit them. Why aren't any of them even looking at Paradigm for this? He had everything to gain from it."

"All the evidence points to Doctor Bolton. I talked to the police but…" Lena shook her head apologetically. "Paradigm's covered his tracks too well."

"He's thorough, I'll give him that." The admittance was a grudging one. "Dad always said he was a genius." He flicked the channel, pausing at the dark, blurred shot of film he hadn't seen yet. The screen was small, but he could still make out enough detail to wonder, "What's this?"

Footage from the night Paradigm had tried to capture them, he guessed, but he hadn't seen this part of the battle. Bobby's distinctive striped fin was caught by the searchlight, and squared off against him were two men, both looking uncertainly at their monstrous opponent. John knew his brothers had gotten out alright, but he still tensed when one of the men raised his gun, and one could only wonder how he'd managed to miss at such close range…John let out his held breath when a clawed-hand clapped down on his shoulder.

"Is it possible I look even better on camera than I do in person?" Bobby asked the room, leaning casually on John's shoulder. "Look at that shark in action! The poise, the grace--"

"The ego," Clint overrode him, squinting at the screen. "Personally, I think it makes you look fat."

Bobby made a distractingly horrified noise that John half-heartedly tried to hush, but truthfully he was just a little bit glad his brothers were back where he could see them again. He had this horrible notion that they might disappear, just like their father had. Still, the overprotective Big Brother vibes didn't fly with Clint, and Bobby certainly didn't need the encouragement of knowing people were glad to see him. "Would you guys keep it down? I wanna hear this."

_This_ was the annoyingly familiar drawl of KFIZ's most notorious reporter. "For those of you who just tuned in, this is Guy-in-the-Sky reporting live over the industrial sector where the manhunt for the Bolton brothers continues. As you can see, we have one of our fugitives cornered near the old paper mill, but it doesn't look like Fission City's finest are having any luck containing him!"

The gun had been sent flying, and the two officers followed suit a moment later with a casual flick of Bobby's arm, leaving the tiger shark clear to dash for freedom. Clint seemed grudgingly impressed. "Nice."

"Naturally," Bobby said smugly.

"We have recorded footage of all four of the brothers in their new shark skins. Of course, due to our lack of information on the subject, we at KFIZ can not confirm which shark is who at this point in time," Guy said, sounding cheerfully unphased by this fact. "So in the interests of avoiding confusion, this intrepid reporter has taken the initiative and provided temporary aliases until their real identities are made known."

The screen flashed, presenting four reasonably clear pictures of the brothers along with a selection of 'estimated' statistics for each along with the new titles. Evidently the public felt better about having them quantified, however inaccurate the information was.

Clint, however, was rightfully infuriated. "Just where does this guy get off thinking he can rename us? What the hell…"

"Hey, I get to be 'Streex'! That sounds kind of cool," Bobby enthused, though whether he actually thought so or if he was just saying it to provoke Clint was anyone's guess.

Either way, it was effective. Clint gave him a withering look. "Only you would think so. Its got that right ring of bad comic book superhero that only a ten year old would approve of."

"Bro, you run a comic book store! What gives you the right to--"

"Hey," Cooper said softly, but it somehow broke up the middle siblings' escalating argument and brought the rest of the room up short, directing them to follow the whale shark's gaze back to the TV. Paradigm's smiling face beamed back at them. The tiny speakers seemed very loud in the sudden quiet.

"Through the aid of the police I have managed to acquire many of Bolton's research notes on his genetic manipulation processes, it is unclear exactly how long these experiments have been going on. Two other unknown creatures have been caught on film by our city's intrepid reporters, and there is no indication of how many more might exist. He may be seeking more people to submit to his experiments even as I speak."

There was a mutter of apprehension from the crowd of people Paradigm was addressing, but that was nothing compared to the venomous rumble of not-quite-sound from the bothers. Lena and Bends exchanged a look of alarm.

"With the aid of the mayor, I have been granted a new office from which to research further into Bolton's processes, to perhaps find a way of undoing the damage he has caused, and to find new means of protecting Fission City's citizens from this threat. In the meantime, I encourage anyone with new information on Bolton or his whereabouts to come forward. No good can come from letting this mad man walk the streets unhindered."

One of the reporters in the audience pointed her microphone in his direction. "Doctor Paradigm, Bolton's sons are still considered to be at large. What will happen to them once they're found?"

Paradigm's expression of sorrow seemed quite genuine. "I'm afraid at present I have yet to find any information relating to the mutation of those poor boys. I'm afraid, at this point in time, there is no cure for them. However, perhaps with further study I can deduce a method of reversing their transformation…if the city is willing to release them into my care once they've been apprehended…?" He looked beseechingly towards the Mayor, who stood at her own podium.

"Of course, Doctor Paradigm," Mayor Marino replied with a wide, hopeful smile. "You're the best chance those boys have."

It was impossible to tell which of them moved first, but Bends wisely dove for cover and Lena sat with rigid stillness as the four brothers descended on the TV and mercilessly ripped it apart like…well, sharks on a wounded prey. The sparks from the dying circuitry didn't seem to phase them in the slightest, and industrialized plastic tore like cloth. The tension faded to a well-fed satisfaction when the defenseless object had been reduced to pieces no bigger than a matchbox, and Bends decided it was okay to start breathing again.

He cleared his throat. "So I guess we'll be needing a new TV then."

The smugness became a bit sheepish. Bobby looked at the broken pieces in his hands. "Oops."

"We probably shouldn't have done that." John gave Bends and Lena a belated, apologetic look. "Sorry."

For scaring them, not for the loss of the TV. "It's fine," Lena said quickly, mouth a little dry.

"Can you believe the nerve of that lousy lying piece of shit?" Clint snarled, fists clenched. "And how every stupid idiot just bought that trash?"

"Cool it, Clint." John had transcended rage into something quieter, more vengeful. "We're not done yet."

"Feels like it," Cooper mumbled, looking morosely at the remains of the TV. "Everyone believes him about us."

"You had a plan, right?" Bobby asked sharply. "We're not just going to sit on our butts and wait this out, are we?"

"No," John said slowly, contemplatively. "We're not."

* * *

_No TVs were harmed in the making of this chapter. Also, concrit welcome! _


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note**: Anyone who can guess the theme of our titles for the first five chapters gets a cookie. XD

* * *

**Chapter 5 -** **With gently smiling jaws**

Being strapped to the front of a speeding bullet train would probably have been less stressful than the week Lena was having, although the whiplash of moving too quickly and the feeling of helplessness was about the same. It was probably for the best that she couldn't stick around to hear the outline of John's plan. The next day she had her initiation at Paradigm's new laboratory, had to smile through his guided tour and make friends with the rest of the staff, and it would have been much for difficult to do that knowing what the brothers had in mind.

What she hadn't figured on was how quickly they were intending to do it.

"Tonight?" she repeated worriedly, wishing Bends hadn't been caught up back at the University. He might have been able to talk some sense into them, or at least into Clint who was radiating enough boiling frustration to add unstoppable momentum to the others. Instinctively, she kept her voice pitched low for only John to hear. "Shouldn't you wait a little longer?"

"For what?" John asked, looking a little strained but still determined. "If we want to catch him unprepared, we have to start moving as quickly as he is." Seeing her frown, he added, "If it looks like trouble we'll come back, but Paradigm doesn't know that we know about the place, and chances are he won't even be there. At least we'll be getting a look at what we're up against."

"It's still risky," she said. "If you want to check it out, then Bends and I would be a lot less conspicuous-"

"And a lot more at risk," he finished. "If either of you got caught lurking around. then it's over for you. What if he has those other mutants hanging around? You could disappear and it still wouldn't lead back to him. Lena, please." He locked eyes with her. "Don't worry about us. We'll be careful."

They didn't need her acceptance, and the lack of it wouldn't stop them, but John would obviously feel better for having it. She sighed, arms folded over her stomach. "Just come back, alright?"

"After all the trouble we went to fix this place up?" He gave her a toothy grin. "You better believe it."

"And don't let your brothers get out of line," she said with a meaningful look to where the newly titled 'Streex' was preening in front of the mirror they had brought back yesterday.

"I may be forced to admit that black isn't my color," the tiger shark was telling Cooper, admiring the fit of the dark jeans he'd changed in to. "Not that it looks _bad_, mind you, but it just doesn't compliment the purple very well."

"I think the idea is that we're not supposed to be seen," Cooper offered with the tone of one who was merely humoring such statements of vanity.

Streex didn't seem to be listening. "And the shirt is a total no go. We're not going to fit into anything without some serious tailoring done."

"Better catch up on your needle work then, bro," Clint said, flipping the mirror to quickly check his own look. Clothing was a hit-and-miss business since the mutation had changed their shapes, although from the waist down, it was thankfully less profound. Loosen the belt a bit and most things still fit. "Because I don't think you're going to find anyone who works in mutant sizes."

Streex fought indignantly for his rights to the mirror back, and John looked at Lena solemnly. "It may already be a lost cause."

She sighed expressively. "That doesn't reassure me."

"They'll do fine," John said. "This Meshinda place is supposed to be some kind of open lab. I don't think it'll be too heavily guarded."

"That also means it's less likely you'll find anything useful to use against Paradigm…or anything about your father," she pointed out, and though his expression was hurt it was kinder to be cruel. High expectations led to unpleasant pitfalls when unmet, and though John hadn't specifically mentioned looking for a trace of Doctor Bolton she knew they were all hoping.

"Yeah," he said heavily. "But we have to at least try…"

She nodded slowly. "I know." Half of her wanted to convince them to stay, but the other half had already resigned to just wishing them good luck.

"Besides, if all goes well, no one will even know we were there. It's not like we're intending to blow up the place."

"We're not?" Clint called. "Damn."

"I'm sure Bends could whip us up something if we wanted to," Streex joined in.

"No." John gave them both a hard look. "Let's not give him anything else to use against us, alright?"

They resided with minimal grumbling, and Lena gave John a sideways look. "Maybe it's not a lost cause after all."

"Let's hope not," John said, running a critical eye over his brothers. "But it's been a long time since I've had to baby-sit all three of them."

* * *

The steam tunnels didn't take them as far as they needed to go, and since Streex flat out refused the sewers as an option, the brothers were forced to walk the remaining distance feeling very conspicuous and jumping at the noise of every alley cat and distant siren.

"It's still better than the sewers," Streex insisted stubbornly at the halfway point as they took a five-minute break to orient themselves and sooth jangled nerves. "Paradigm wouldn't need any security, he'd just smell us coming."

"If you were talking any louder, he'd probably hear us too," Clint hissed, flinching a little as a car revved loudly down a nearby street.

"I don't see the point of being quiet when there's no one around to hear us, _Jab_. If you were bothering to use even half your brain you'd have noticed that too."

'Jab' bared his teeth. "Don't call me that."

"Why not? Seriously, what's the point of being fearsome shark monsters is we can't have cool names to match? 'Bobby the Tiger Shark'? How is that supposed to strike fear into the hearts of evil?"

"They're not cool, they're _dumb_. Why can't you-!?"

Cooper stepped between them, forestalling another round of bickering. The youngest had always been the tallest of them, but now his size was so much more pronounced, and the two didn't dare do more than glare at each other behind their brothers' yellow speckled back. The rest of the journey passed silently and without incident, until they got their first good look at their target.

"Wow," Streex said. "I didn't actually think the place would _look_ like the lair of a mad scientist. Maybe Paradigm's not as clever as we thought."

The building was an old, stonework monstrosity, with tall, iron barred windows and a severe looking fence of iron spikes that clearly warded off visitors. A tarnished plate bearing the name 'Meshinda Institute' was nailed near the gate which, despite sharing the same antiquated look as the rest of the building, had been fitted with a subtle but impressive set of reinforced mechanics. John could even see a keypad inlaid in the crumbling stonework, a suspicious contrast of old and new.

"Wish we had Bends here to pick the lock for us," John mused under his breath. He had a decent grasp of basic electronics, but not the intuitive, almost supernatural empathy Bends had with machines. He wouldn't be able to get past it without significant time, which they didn't have. "Don't really fancy jumping the fence either."

"Can't we just find somewhere to break though it?" Cooper asked.

John limited the self-admonishment to a mental head-smack. He kept forgetting they weren't restricted to just the mundane options. "Right. Let's find a place where they won't notice the hole too quickly."

That part proved more difficult. The building was on the outer edge of a nice district, which meant streetlights at every corner and no convenient dark alleys. John reevaluated their options, scoured the street for a bit of loose stone, and directed Coop to take out one of the lights with it.

"Glad to see you've still got your throwing arm," John approved warmly as the stone flew true on the first try and the light shattered with a pop of electricity and a tinkle of falling glass.

Cooper smiled embarrassedly. "Coach had me working on my aim all season. It used to be my weak point."

"Not any more," Jab observed, tapping his foot as they impatiently counted down five minutes to make sure no one was going to make a fuss over the light. When the coast was clear, they got to work on the fence.

While the metal was malleable enough, the sound it made was terrible – like the screech of nails down chalkboard slate, but ten times as loud. John did his best not to cringe as he stood watch, stretching the shark's awareness of movement as far as he could while keeping his eyes peeled for car lights. The noise was distracting, punctuated with grumbling and swearing, but eventually there was enough space to climb through.

Jab surveyed their handiwork. "You know, this is the third place we've broken into this week. I think it's getting easier."

Streex stared for a moment before breaking out in a short, nervous cackle. "Can you imagine saying that a week ago? Man, have our lives gotten weird or what?"

"It's been a weird week," John said with a crooked grin, but the expression wavered a moment later as he considered the ruined fence. _Now or never…_but hesitation wasn't really a Bolton trait. Angling his body so that his new fin wouldn't unexpectedly catch on anything, he climbed through.

The inside of the grounds was well kept. The grass smelt wet and luscious, the hedges were carefully trimmed and the white gravel on the driveway seemed oddly luminescent in the moonlight. There was a single car parked alongside the building, and his heightened senses John could smell the tang of its metal chassis, the rubber of the tires, hell, he could probably even make an educated guess on what kind of motor oil it was using. Beneath that there was another scent, even _more_ familiar. Startled, he went to investigate it, trying to catalog it in the new library of scents his memory was keeping.

"Hey bro," Jab called softy. "We're not here to check out the wheels."

"Nice car though," Coop observed, running an appreciative hand over the bonnet. "Don't see many of these in the city."

"We could tip it," Streex said mischievously. "Bet with all four of us we could turn it upside down, quiet as you please. I wonder who owns it?"

"Paradigm."

The three younger brothers stared at their elder. He'd been the only one to come across Paradigm in their new forms, and even though it had been under harrowing circumstances and in a heavy downpour of rain, he was certain. "He's here."

* * *

"Madame Mayor," Paradigm purred. "I assure you that at this time there is no possibility of a city-wide epidemic. Frankly put, this area of genetics is extremely delicate. Causing mutation on such a scale would be astronomically improbable." 

He listened politely to the voice on the line. The Mayor was doing her best to calm the fears of the public, and for that he would gratefully answer her questions…not necessarily truthfully. After all, there was no benefit in causing a panic among his potential test subjects when a few white lies kept them ignorant and happy.

"I'm afraid that even after receiving the full inventory from your investigators, there are still missing fragments from Bolton's research," he admitted mournfully, with was true enough. Bolton had been willing enough to share his research in the beginning, had even invited Paradigm to suggest improvements until he'd begun to suspect. After that he'd hidden the choicest parts of his research away, forcing Paradigm to improvise with rather spectacular results, if he did say so himself.

"Thank you Mayor." He smiled benignly into the receiver. "It's good to have your trust."

It was _good_, he thought. Everything his former colleague had possessed, neatly stolen out from under him. His research, his reputation, the respect of their peers, and even his family…of course, that particular plan had gone slightly astray, but it would be corrected soon enough. Paradigm's plans stretched beyond the complete destruction of his former-colleague's life, of course. That was merely a very satisfying by-product, fueled by years of pent up frustration at being outdone by a man who was merely good rather than _great_. The insult to his intellect had been abhorrent.

The phone rang again. A common enough occurrence since he'd become the city's one and only savior. He let it ring a few times before answering soberly. "Yes?"

The genuine smile affixed to his face certainly shone in his voice. "Ah yes, Miss Mason, I'm glad to hear from you so soon. I take it you've had time to consider my proposal."

Her response was as enthusiastic as he'd hoped. The poor girl…she reminded him a bit of himself. "Why not come tomorrow? I'm sure you'll find the labs are more than adequate for your needs. The address is on the card."

There was a buzz from the intercom on his desk. He gave the device a particularly vile stare, as though it would somehow transmit to the source of the interruption. "I'm sorry Miss Mason, but I've got an important call coming in. Shall we continue this conversation when I see you in person? My pleasure. Goodbye." He hung up and hit the intercom harshly.

"What is it?" he answered, not bothering to keep the irritation out of his voice. The unwitting public was worth the face of his good humor; his Seaviates were not.

"Sorry to interrupt, Doctor," the voice of his creation answered. The drawling hiss was hard to differentiate from the regular buzz of static, but it was clear there wasn't very much regret present. It sounded more like restrained glee. "But we have an intruder sighting on the ground floor monitors. Looks like it could be sharks."

Paradigm paused for a moment, his intellect calculating the odds. "Already?" he murmured, mostly to himself, but at once his good humor returned twice fold. "Well then, by all means activate the outer defenses. I'll be down in a moment."

* * *

John hastily interceded and checked for obvious wires on the door before busting the lock with a simple push. Jab had been making dire mutterings about pulling the thing off its hinges, crumpling it like paper, before going on to demolish the rest of the building until Paradigm scurried out of whatever hole he was hiding in. John managed to stall him with the reminder that Paradigm might try to run for it instead, although in truth, he didn't believe that. 

He remembered the Doctor facing him down on that rooftop; tall, proud and utterly fearless. It was really the unknown that people were afraid of, and Paradigm knew the four of them right down to their DNA.

John was going to enjoy proving him wrong on that score. Putting the fear back into him was going to be sweet vengeance, and perhaps then, assuming the Doctor still had the use of his vocal cords, he would be more willing to tell them what had happened to their father. The possibility of finally getting some answers had the effect of dangling raw meat above the mouths of hungry wolves, but he had Lena's words and his own caution to remind him that it could just as easily be the bait of a trap.

Little hope of convincing his brothers of that fact though.

"C'mon, which way?" Streex asked him. "Use that magic mojo of yours. There's gotta be something moving in here."

"It's not that easy," John grumbled, doing his best to concentrate but he seemed to be getting mixed signals. Shark instincts didn't usually have to function with the added impediment of walls and floors in the way, and right now the most prominent movement was that of his brothers, and at least one of those signals was moving away. "Hey, get back here!"

Jab did no such thing. The side door they'd used had let them into a kitchen, and while the smells from the fridge had been temporarily fascinating, it simply wasn't enough. The hammerhead stalked through the darkness, forcing his brothers to follow or be left behind, because he wasn't moving slowly, not was he making any effort to hide his presence. He wanted to be found, preferably by that smug, sonovabitch who called himself a geneticist.

The oak-paneled walls looked expensive. He only resisted the urge to start prying up the wood because it would have slowed him down, and there was little chance of finding Paradigm that way. He was following the barest trace of a scent, like the faint musk of expensive cologne, which indicated someone had passed this way in the last few hours. Only when the tight corridors gave way to a foyer did he pause, realizing he was at a crossroads. The trail split in at least three different directions, and he couldn't figure out which was the most recent.

"Hey Jab, if you find Paradigm first, you'll remember to save some of him for the rest of us, right?" Streex asked, catching up.

"No promises," Jab ground out.

The foyer had a wide stairway leading up to the next floor, and at least one of the trails led in that direction. Jab scowled at it, and Streex followed his gaze. "Should we go up?"

"No, down."

Streex raised an eyebrow at John. "We have down as an option?"

"That's where the movement is," John said, seeming a little annoyed, but mostly distracted, trying to stare through the floor. "Looks like we've lost our element of surprise though."

"How?"

John pointed, and the middle siblings took startled notice of the camera in the rafters. Its tiny red light blinked at them admonishingly.

"Damn," Jab muttered softly. "Sorry."

"I don't hear any alarms," Cooper said, glancing around as though he expected them to suddenly come alive at the reminder.

"Maybe no one's manning the cameras," Streex said hopefully.

"Don't count on it. Paradigm probably just doesn't want the police involved." John felt a brief flicker of nervousness that he banished. "Look for some stairs down. Stay close and yell if you see anything."

Streex was still convinced that maybe they were giving Paradigm too much credit. The stairs were tucked away behind a door labeled 'Staff Only', which might as well have read, 'Keep Out: Mad Scientist's Lab Ahead." At the bottom was a door that looked like it was suited to a bank vault.

Cooper glowered. "I'll take care of it."

The door looked like at had been built to keep out creatures such as themselves, or perhaps a small tank if one could have fit down the stairs. John had thought it would take the determination of all four of them, but as Coop wound back his fist, the great white changed his mind. The first strike rang against the metal clear as a bell, leaving a dent that a normal person could have put their head in. Cracks shot out like spider webs along the walls and the floor, and John felt the aftershocks of the impact like a localized earthquake.

He shifted next to Streex, muttering under his breath, "Slammu huh?"

Streex grinned. "Told you the names fit."

They forced smiles at each other but John knew they'd both seen it. For a moment, just a bare second in the shifting gloom, it was like watching something other than their brother. That much concentrated strength was scary. It only took three strikes, and the door folded like soft cheese, along with most of the wall. Brick and concrete, John noted in passing, before very deliberately moving to Slammu's side and gripped his arm reassuringly. "Nice job."

The dark glare faded, to John's relief. Anger never lasted long on the youngest, but whenever it raised its head even slightly, it was ugly. "Thanks."

"Hope you can manage one more," Streex said, stepping over the wreckage. The newly ventilated room was much more modernized than the rest of the house, with every surface plated with a cool, smooth metal, and on the opposite wall was a door equally impressive as the one they'd just ruined.

John moved to follow, but was stuck by a premonition so profound it was like vertigo. He staggered as though the floor had suddenly thrown him…no, wait, not quite, but it was definitely _moving._ "Bobby wait!"

He'd noticed on his first sweep of the room, but had utterly overlooked the six tiny indented panels in the floor that might just have been imperfections if one missed the fact that they were in equally spaced, identical rows. They rose in synchronous, revealing small turrets, armed with a shiny adornment of barrels that were all pointing in one direction.

John had a moment to notice the rather comical, 'Oh crap!' expression on Streex's face before hell broke loose.

* * *

It was all too soon, Paradigm mused distractedly. Although he handled the test tubes a little more brusquely than usual, there was no hint of panic in his demeanor, nor even a trace of disappointment. He had been expecting this, after all, even if by his own studious calculations he should have had at least another day or two. It wasn't hard to figure out where the blame should be placed. The brothers weren't the first Boltons to invade this particular lab, and Robert was the perpetual, unknown factor in his equations. Paradigm really shouldn't have underestimated him a second time, but the way Robert banded his insufferable morality about Paradigm certainly hadn't expected the man to send his sons in like hounds to flush out the game. 

_How quickly we fall, eh Robert?_ He thought, preparing a syringe for the pale, green liquid he'd prepared. He hadn't been able to check this particular formula with his usual meticulousness, but one had to be adaptable in the face of a crisis. Even if it failed for perform as expected, he would undoubtedly learn something, and the experiment would still be a success.

Much like the way the brothers had turned out. He hadn't anticipated the delayed reaction of their mutations, and had disposed of their supposed corpses without a second thought. A shame that; things might have turned out quite differently, but even now they were proving themselves to be his most brilliant creations to date. His lab wasn't the easiest place to lay siege to, and with only four people? An astounding effort. He spared a moment to privately congratulate his own genius.

The attack itself was an inconvenience, but a necessary one. It was time for his creations to be called to heel, although without the time to properly prepare, his method was appallingly crude, but this building wasn't made to resist their strength and the defenses would only buy him time, and probably not much of it. With that in mind he set the syringe to auto-inject. He only had one dosage, and probably only one chance, but he still felt confident. It wasn't as though anyone, man or mutant, was really his equal.

If anything, his only oversight was to make the brothers a little _too_ well. He'd been aiming for the perfect blend of human and shark, and had gotten it. Their residual humanity made them smarter and more cunning than his other creatures, but it also made them independent, uncontrollable. Even so, he'd thought they could have been manipulated to serve until he realized that sharks too were self-sufficient and untamable creatures, compounding the original problem. In the short term, his only solution was to introduce a new element – a creature that was more limited, but cold and vicious, the perfect addition to balance out the human's empathy and the shark's independence.

The alarm was still blaring in the background as he stuck the needle in his pocket. Beside the door, his guardians shifted restlessly. The noise and lights upset their small, limited brains. That was the flaw in starting with animal minds instead of human ones, but at least they knew how to obey.

The marlin, Slash, was the smarter of the two, not that it counted for much. He was intently watching one of the tiny screens that linked to the security cameras, an aggravated scowl crossing his scaled face. "The sharks are right outside the lab, Doctor." The fact that he could even manage human speech was yet another chalked up victory for Paradigm, even if his voice was the sibilant hiss of a body being dragged across sand. "Do you want us to go out there and take care of them?"

He wasn't sure whether Slash didn't understand the strategic implications of being outnumbered, or if the marlin was just vengeful and overconfident. It was interesting, in a purely scientific way, to watch the mental development of his creatures. After being beaten by the Boltons the first time, Paradigm had seen the first seed of wounded pride planted in Slash's personality. Intriguing as it was, it hadn't helped the Doctor convince him that the Sharks were not to be harmed beyond reason…either the concept was too complex or Slash was purposefully pretending it was.

His other guardian was far less difficult to interpret. Slobster's name directly reflected his lack of grace, both with his cumbersome pincers and his unsophisticated mindset. His basic instincts were far more pronounced, and about as refined as a chainsaw, but he was still a fearsome creature that Paradigm treated as though he were a loyal guard dog. A very enthusiastic one. "They won't get past us a second time."

"I'm sure," Paradigm agreed grimly. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Let them wear themselves out getting through the door. I'd rather not take the chance that your combined incompetence will prevail again." He highly doubted that either of them even knew what 'incompetence' was, but the tone was obviously condescending and Slash grumbled unhappily. "And stick to the plan! If any of the Sharks are killed before I say so I'll unmake you both and use the remains as fish bait. Are we clear?"

Their assent was given reluctantly, but Paradigm was quick to dismiss that minor act of insubordination as he felt the small cylinder in his sleeve. One dosage, one chance. He had already chosen his victim, and he was ready.

* * *

"Be honest with me, bro. How bad is it?" It was hard to tell what part of Streex's tone was serious, and which part was just stilted dramatics. Certainly the way he was fidgeting while John looked critically at the burn seemed to indicate he wasn't all that injured. 

"I think you'll be fine," John said, wishing he'd though to bring a first aid kit so he could at least put a bandage over the singed mark. He hadn't expected such an impressive defense system. The Doctor was either paranoid, or had somehow known they were coming. He wasn't ready to discount either theory.

"Well no duh. That thing barely scratched me! I just need to know if I should be considering plastic surgery for the scar. Is it going to ruin my dashing good looks?"

"Don't chicks dig scars?" Jab asked with a weak grin, and it was a testament to the scare they'd gotten that he didn't immediately pounce on Streex's vanity. They were all wound a little too tightly, sharing the dangerous reality that maybe they weren't as ready for this as they'd thought.

Nervous tension forced them to joke, or simply fold under the stress. Streex twisted around to get a better look at the injury. "Only if they're cool looking. This one doesn't count. Look at it, it just a blob! And if you tilt your head this way, it kind of looks like Texas. Hey John, what do you think?"

John was staring at the doors that barred the way. The little alarm bell of his motion sense was ringing its heart out, promising fresh, moving prey just ahead. They were so close to answers, and yet- "Maybe we shouldn't do this."

That earned him three stares of indignant shock.

"What?!"

"But bro-"

"Are you kidding?"

"Look, this isn't working out like we thought it would," John spoke over the top of them firmly. "This was supposed to be a stealth mission but it's obvious they know we're here."

"Oh no, no way," Streex pointed at him, looking peeved. "You did not drag us this far for nothing. Have you had a good look at this burn? Like hell we're going empty handed after that."

"What about Dad?" Slammu asked. "What if he's still here? We have to find him!"

"I _know_, okay?" John shifted restlessly. The shark instincts didn't enjoy standing still, especially not when he was getting hungry again and he could practically smell his next meal just around the corner. "But we shouldn't just go barging in. I don't really wanna see any of us ending back up on a lab table."

"Think about the risks, blah blah, haven't we done this already?" Jab said impatiently. "I'm with Streex," and he shot a glare at his brother, daring him to make a point of the use of that name. "We haven't taken all these scratches and bruises just to turn around when it looks like a rough ride. That's not us. I thought you had that figured, bro."

John rolled his eyes a little. "It's not that easy. Until Dad gets back, I'm sort of in charge-" Streex snorted; he ignored it. "-and if anything happens to you-"

"It won't. Conversation over." Streex gestured with his chin towards the imposing doorway on the far side of the room. "Hey Slam, reckon you can put a dent in that for us?"

Slammu shrugged apologetically at John, but moved to comply. The eldest groaned. Well at least he'd tried, even if they obviously weren't going to listen. Lena's words were still haunting him but there was nothing to do but try and keep them safe as much as possible.

He caught Slammu by the shoulder. "Alright, but if we're doing this then let's be smart about it. How about we start by not using the front door. That's just asking for trouble."

"Well how else are we getting in?" Jab demanded.

John pointed back towards the stairs. "I think they say the advantage is in higher ground."

"But what if we can't find another staircase back down?" Slammu said uncertainly.

John shrugged eloquently. "Who needs stairs?"

That earned him a round of blank looks, followed by understanding smirks.

"And just so we're clear," John said, picking up the remains of one of the gun turrets and hefting it meaningfully. "I get first shot at Paradigm."

He threw the scrap of metal towards the camera in the corner, shattering it beyond use.

* * *

"We lost the camera," Slash observed. The screen only displayed unhelpful, monochromatic static, leaving Paradigm without any eyes on the basement landing. 

"I can see that." His powerful mind raced, categorizing the possibilities and their likelihood. "No doubt they're trying to find another way in."

Good luck with that, he thought. The main door was really the only feasible entryway - no wait. He frowned in consideration. Would Bolton have told them about that? Better to be sure.

"Slash, go double check the exit Doctor Bolton created when he departed our company. Slobster, wait here while I check the computers. No doubt their entrance will be a noisy one but stay on your guard."

The security systems were further back into the laboratory, behind yet another solidly locked door. He didn't jog, precisely – he still wasn't worried, and it would be unseemly to rush in his own laboratory – but it was definitely a brisk walk. He had to anticipate what Bolton might have told them about the layout of the Institute, its strengths and weaknesses…and the large hole leading towards the East Wing certainly counted. The Brothers had been approaching from the opposite direction so he hadn't thought to remember it, but perhaps it had all been misdirection?

The computers would know for sure. The cameras were out but he still had the motion sensors to fall back on. As long as he could track their movements he wouldn't end up cornered, not that he didn't have another exit prepared just in case. One could never be too careful.

The code to the security room was ten digits long, and changed every other week, but such was the prudence of a cautious mind, and it wasn't as though such trifling memorizations were beyond his ability. The numbered were entered with confidence and the door gave way respectfully.

The interior computer was not one he'd crafted himself. Why bother to waste his time and talents on such a thing, when the simplest solution was just to hack the records of the best security systems' dealer in the city and steal the design of their best model. Already it had called up a map of the building, and Paradigm was instantly reassured. As predicted, the brothers had moved back upstairs, but they weren't heading to the East Wing, just milling around in the foyer. He absently noticed he'd lost the camera there too, but it was a trivial matter. What could they possibly hope to accomplish?

The signal disappeared.

Paradigm stared at it, waiting, but it didn't instantaneously reappear. Several long seconds passed. No living creature could stay still that long, much less four of them all at once. Was the machine broken? Had they somehow managed to short it out? Or-

Oh. Of course.

"Their father's sons indeed," he murmured to himself, finding humor in the situation. The Boltons kept managing to surprise him. That happened rarely enough that he could still appreciate the novelty.

He left the security room and was unsurprised to find the great white waiting for him.

"The first thing I'm going to do after I strip you of your free will," he began pleasantly, "is have fix the hole you just put in my ceiling."

"The first thing I'm going to do after I break your legs," John countered, "is make you tell me where our father is."

Paradigm didn't let himself so much as raise an eyebrow. They hadn't been contacted by Robert? Then how-?

Save the thought for later. John lunged, forcing Paradigm to dance away, reaching unobtrusively for the needle. It was small enough to hide in his palm until the perfect opportunity presented itself, though he'd have to be careful with it. The minor distraction proved to be all John needed for a second swing, one that neatly cleaved a nearby table in two, sending a medley of lab equipment flying.

Paradigm had to give the boy some credit. He'd gotten faster already, acclimatized to being a perfect monster instead of flawed human, but he was still untrained and unpolished. A diamond in the rough, although there was a look of burning savagery in his eyes that Paradigm could approve of. Hate was a powerful tool.

"Don't tell me you're still fighting your brothers' battles," Paradigm said, choosing to parry the mutant's next swing instead of ducking it. The impact wasn't pleasant, but it as time to remind John that he wouldn't be so easily overpowered. The energy-conductive, woven fibers of his power suit increased his strength ten-fold. "Or is this some kind of act of chivalry? Fighting me one on one? It really isn't necessary."

He forced John back a few inches, twisting his arm at an angle that should have broken it, but added flexibility was a perk of his new genetic structure. John yelped, pulling back before any real damage could be done. Paradigm graciously gave him a moment to recover.

If one of the others _did_ show up then, well, there might be a problem, not that he'd let it show. He was certainly confident he could take any one of them. Two? Might be stretching even his skills, although he predicted the younger two would be less troublesome than Clint. He had a taser as a backup, of course, especially calibrated to work against mutants, but it hadn't yet been tested. It might be too strong…or it might not be strong enough. He was pretty confident that his pets would be occupying the others though, if their earlier declarations had been any indication.

Something was burning. The liquids in the beakers from the now broken table had probably leaked into the electrical equipment. Now there would be a mess. He sighed. "Shall we finish this before you do any more damage to my lab?"

"Sounds good to me!"

He hadn't quite expected John to pick up the closest half of the table and use it as a club. Oh, well, he _had_, but as the measure of possibilities went it hadn't been high on his list, and John had moved with unexpected swiftness. Another miscalculation, but an invigorating one. Did this mean the brothers had the potential to be even faster than he'd calculated? He had the genius equivalent of hours to wonder about it as he was thrown back into the wall.

His armor absorbed most of the shock, although was definitely dented around the ribcage, impeding his breathing somewhat. He made a mental note to add that to the list of things he would improve once this crisis was over, but the more immediate problem of the needle remained. One dosage, once chance, and he really didn't want to wait until next time. His scientific progress would not be halted!

Paradigm climbed to his knees, searching with his good eye in the hope that the delicate tool hadn't been shattered in his fall, and as his arms scrabbled across the floor he felt the pinch on his right palm again, the barest sensation of cold, sharp pain, and when he spared a glance-

-The needle was sticking into his own hand.

It protruded innocuously, in defiance of any sense of logic, but the slender needle had pierced through one of the minute cracks in his armor. Where John's mutant strength had only managed a few inconvenient dents, a more delicate and accurate assault had won a victory twice as devastating. Paradigm could only stare. The syringe was empty, the auto-injector had performed flawlessly, and he had stayed frozen too long, because the next jolt of awareness came back as he collided with the wall, pinned by the monstrous hand around his throat that was barely restrained from asphyxiating the life out him.

"Alright Paradigm," John said, his face looming in the doctor's vision, all jagged teeth and cold, dark eyes. "It's time for you to give me some answers, and I'd better like what I hear."

His throat was squeezed, but Paradigm only afforded the creature a sneer. Did he really think such rough intimidation tactics would work on a man of Paradigm's genius? John couldn't kill him – he had the same, cumbersome morality as his father, the one that had lead Robert to confront him in private rather than just take what he knew to the police straight away. No, he wouldn't dare to cross the lines that Paradigm had, and thus his threats meant nothing.

He opened his mouth to explain exactly how futile this situation was, but his jaw didn't seem to want to obey him. Was it a side effect of the fall? Perhaps the limited oxygen that was barely reaching his abused lungs? Or…

His hand burned where the needle was still embedded, and he belatedly realized that it wasn't his jaw that wouldn't open, but rather his teeth had already grown to fill the gap, stretching beyond reason until he could feel it dislocating and the muscles of his face threatened to tear.

He caught a glimpse of John's horror-struck face – momentarily gratifying – but then the fire in his veins was spreading to the area he's primarily intended it to target, the brain, and he realized that no act of genius could save him from this.

* * *

John hadn't realized how utterly bizarre and nauseating the mutation process was. He hadn't been there to see his brothers change, nor had he gotten a very good look at his own like Bends had, and suddenly he was grateful. Paradigm's transformation was going to haunt him for a long time. 

It was like watching the crude machinations of a child with wet clay. The lower half of his face morphed gruesomely to accommodate a row of fangs that were as long as nails. His lips rolled backwards until his nose and his chin disappeared somewhere in the stretching, and his mouth was pulled wide until it threatened to split his face in two. The worst was the noise. If the transformation was as painful as it looked, Paradigm would have been screaming, and it certainly sounded as though he was trying but with the horrific distortion of his face he could only manage a high, wheezing sound as he clawed madly at his throat.

John wasn't quite sure at what point he'd let Paradigm go. He tried to decide if he should move closer to try and help the man or not, but instinct cemented him in place. There was just no way he wanted to be anywhere near _that_, even if it was a matter of life and death.

For a minute, John was sure that it was going to be the latter, but finally the convulsions faded and the wheezing quieten down into heavy panting intermixed with whimpers, and he dared to look again. Paradigm's gums had bled with the violent eruption of his teeth. Blood and saliva dripped from his mangled mouth, which was now contorted into a permanent, repulsive grimace as his lips could no longer cover the glistening ivory fangs.

John spared one moment to be profoundly grateful that the needle he's seen as the cause of this horror hadn't gone into his own arm.

He hedged forward slightly, moving with the caution reserved for cataclysm survivors. "Doctor Paradigm?"

The man hadn't moved, frozen in shock perhaps, but slowly his single eye focused on John. The pupil had expanded until his eye was a single, soulless pit of blackness that communicated nothing but madness. John had the unruffled calm of the shark's predatory instincts to back him up, but even he couldn't resist taking a healthy step backwards. "Holy sh-"

Paradigm struck.

The man had been fast before, now he was insane, and apparently not holding back. John couldn't see anything like recognition in the doctor's eyes as he attacked managing to knock John off his feet and landing on top of him, clawing like a rabid dog. John wasn't in a good position to push him off, and damn that armor must have been heavy because he could barely keep the doctor back. The disfigured mouth was opened wide, emitting a high pitched screech, and he was getting closer and closer to being able to bite at John's neck-

-until a second pair of hands joined with his own and yanked the man off.

"What the hell?" Jab swore, pulling his brother his feet. "Where did that come from?"

John hissed weakly, feeling assorted aches surfacing with the immediate danger out of the way, reminding him that it hadn't been that long ago that he'd jumped from the top of a building into a dump truck. "It's-"

The being formerly known as Doctor Luther Paradigm straightened stiffly, like a wooden marionette, and he seemed to present the object in his hand with the same kind of absurd drama as a puppet play. There wasn't anything funny about the contents of that beaker though, and for the first time there was a glimmer of intelligence in his eye. He knew _exactly_ what he was doing.

"Move!" John tried to drag his brother, but it wasn't easy to hurry a mutant when they didn't want to be, and Jab was still staring at Paradigm, transfixed with no small amount of disgust.

"But what about-?"

"Forget it!"

The beaker arced gracefully through the air, and not a drop was spilled until it smashed against the ground, and the tamely burning flames John had started earlier burst into renewed life. The air filled with acrid smoke that burned their eyes and gills, and the flames quickly spread outward, searching for more to consume. Paradigm was already invisible behind the curtain of flames, but John imagined that he could still hear a high-pitched, maniacal laugh.

"Hey, where's all this smoke coming from?" Streex asked as the eldest two rounded the corner back into the main part of the lab. "You know, I think Slam took care of that Lobster if we wanna stop and barbecue it."

"No time," John said. "We better get out of here before the fire department shows up."

Streex blinked. "Good point. Which way?"

Good question. Getting back through that hole in the ceiling wouldn't be easy, and the main door to the lab was probably still sealed. Breaking it down would be time consuming, and the smoke was getting thicker. He remembered reading that it was often smoke that killed people long before the fire ever reached them.

"I thought I saw a weak wall down that way," Slammu pointed. "I think we can get through there pretty easy."

It lead further away from the fire, to where the air was a bit cleaner. John decided to risk it. "Show me."

It was, oddly enough, a very recently repaired hole in the wall, large enough to fit them all easily once its shoddy repairs were out of the way. John tore through them like wet paper, and wondering what had put it there in the first place. One of Paradigm's other creatures maybe.

He could see stairs back to the ground floor just beyond them, but he paused on the threshold, glancing at Streex. "You got it, right?"

The tiger shark showed off the miniature computer drive. "Losing faith in me, Ripster? I got his whole system copied, right here."

Ripster smiled. "Good."

Any clues Paradigm had on his computers would be on that disk, and the good Doctor was now a victim of his own gene-slamming formula gone wrong, perhaps even having been consumed by the flames he'd released himself. If that wasn't ironic justice, he didn't know what was.

* * *

Gabrielle's wardrobe that consisted of clothing that could survive the end of the world, and looked like it already had, with shapeless sweaters and jeans that weren't so much fashionably ripped as just ripped…but she had one nice dress and today she wore it, nervously checking and rechecking her purse. She panicked over losing track of the card six times before she finally decided to just keep a hold of it, turning it over in her hands so many times that it probably lost some of its sheen before the taxi arrived wordlessly at the destination and took her money rudely. She realized the reason for his abruptness only after she climbed out; the street was swarming with police cars, all flashing their lights, and gawkers were being shooed away without much heat. 

Nothing to do with me, she thought, trying to hold her head high as she checked the address on the card one last time just in case her memory decided to trick her and ruin this chance. She checked the street numbers, looked at the building…rubbed her eyes, and looked again, but the sight didn't change. It was a ruin, but a recent one if the presence of so many people was any indication. She stared for an untold time, her eyes growing increasingly wider, and when they were finally stretched to the limit, her senses called attention to her hearing instead.

"-no, I was on the top floor last night. I didn't notice anything happening until the floor began to shake." The voice was familiar. The officers looked right past her as she slipped between their cars, just like everyone else, though on this occasion it was actually useful.

Among the sea of people pulled too early from their beds, or those who just stared uselessly at the destruction, only one man stood tall and alert, calmly giving his statement to the police as though he wasn't holding a bloodstained cloth to his face. "Doctor Paradigm?" her voice quavered a little, but he didn't look annoyed at her interruption, only surprised.

"Miss Mason? Ah, I'm afraid you must forgive me. As you can see, this morning has been a little…unfortunate."

A brave understatement of fact. "What happened?"

The officer taking the Doctor's statement looked pained. "Ma'am, I'll have to ask you to step back please-"

"No, please, it's fine," Paradigm interceded quickly. "Miss Mason was a prospective student of mine. Still is, I hope?" She nodded frantically, and he seemed to relax a little. "As you can see, the Institute has been the target of a regrettable act of terrorism by the Bolton family. Specifically Robert's sons, I believe, although I have only the tape of my security cameras to go by. I didn't see a thing myself."

It seemed like the officer was trying to will the Doctor into staying silent, but he could hardly say so. Gabriel felt a stab of dislike for the man, trying to suppress information just for the sake of doing so, as if she was some brainless twit that would blather it to all the news stations. The doctor held no such misconstructions. He offered her a wry smile. "My worst luck was having some plaster come down on my head when the building collapsed. Hardly a heroic tale."

She thought it was. "Are you alright?"

"I certainly will be," he pronounced stoutly. "But sadly the building will not. The supports under ground have been destabilized. The whole place would have to be torn down and rebuilt, and that would require a serious contractor and time I simply do not have."

Her mind raced. Her specialty was machine engineering, but one could hardly claim to know that subject without being aware of its related fields. The same theories applied to both civil and architectural engineering, though she'd never designed anything on that scale before but she could learn. She _would_ learn, anything that would be of use to him. "I could help you fix it!"

She probably sounded like a stupid little girl, trying to fix a broken dream, but his smile was soft and his eye seemed warm. "My dear, I believe you could…but I'm sure I can find a far more suitable outlet for talents such as yours."

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note**: Finally finished! Sorry for the long wait.

* * *

**Chapter 6 - Goliath was a Mountain...**

It was a horrible, beautiful, two-faced revelation of bafflement and wonder. That Paradigm was still alive came as a sour disappointment, though considering how many unanswered questions still remained, it might have a few upsides, the first of which was patently obvious in the winning smile the Doctor displayed for the cameras.

A smile with perfectly ordinary, unsharpened teeth in a face that was unpleasantly familiar, but nonetheless it led to one conclusion.

"There _is_ a cure!"

Hope was an ache nearly too sweet to bear. "It has to be," Jab confirmed enthusiastically to Bends. "I saw his face, man. The stuff nightmares are made of. But ten minutes after we left, every cop and camera in the city showed up and there he was giving his statement. He must have had it _right there_."

"Well if he did, we'll find it," Ripster said, sitting in front of their mismatched computer. The moment they'd gotten back with the disk of Paradigm's copied hard drive, Bends had worked around the clock to have it up and running. Though it had been stripped down to the bare essentials it was enough to get a look at what they'd stolen, only to find that it was encrypted with the most paradoxical algorithm Bends had ever seen. He had looked at it for five minutes before giving up. His specialty was hardware; Rip was the software genius, and was currently proving it. Now it only looked like it would take them ten years to decode it all, instead of ten decades.

"I mean, you had to figure he had one, right?" said Streex, looking at Lena. "You guys don't go testing things unless there's a way to undo it, right?"

"Not on people," she agreed, but her brow was furrowed. She opened her mouth to speak again, but changed her mind. Bends thought he was the only one who caught it, but Ripster looked up from his computer screen and Slammu looked a little worried. Mutant senses didn't miss much.

"How's that code coming?" Bends asked.

"Terrible," Rip said with a deep frown, still plugging away intermittently at the keyboard when a new solution occurred.

It had taken a bit of practice to be able to type with hands much larger and exponentially stronger, but at least the concentration overrode the shark's natural instinct to move. It was still frustrating work, and though Bends admired Rip's dedication he was quietly hoping the great white would take a break soon. His tension matched his brothers' enthusiasm, and sooner or later something was going to snap…and on a more personal note, Bends wanted to give some serious doctoring to that computer. It had been the ugliest patch job he'd done in a while, and the exposed processor and twisted wires pleaded with him for healing. Something like guilt for his sloppy work was gnawing at him.

"Our reputation's getting worse though," Slammu pointed out, gesturing back to the screen where a general warning was being issued to the public about staying well away from the now infamous 'Street Sharks'. Some choppy footage had been released from Paradigm's security cameras, cleverly spliced to show them at their worst without a hint of their actual humanity. "Now we've got breaking and entering, arson, and attempted murder on the list of crimes we supposedly committed."

"Did commit, little bro," Streex modified, flashing a smirk. "All for a good cause. When we're back to normal we'll go clear things up with the police and everything will be peachy."

Slam looked unconvinced. "Hope so."

"So what's the plan then?" Bends asked. "As much as you guys ever have one."

Despite his obvious distraction, Ripster seemed nominated to speak. The segue from brother to leader seemed almost natural. "It'll depend what's on the disk, which we won't know until I decode it. At the very least there should be something that'll implicate Paradigm instead of our dad, but I'm hoping there'll be something about what he did to us too."

"And how to _undo_ it," Jab put in.

Rip grinned. "We might get lucky…but I can't tell you how long this'll take." He frowned morosely at the screen. "Paradigm definitely knew what he was doing."

"You've hacked a few tough systems though, haven't you? Like the University-" Streex said.

"Those were an intellectual exercise," Rip said quickly, throwing a sheepish glance at Lena, who had crossed her arms and was looking stern. "Testing security measures, not stealing data. This is different."

Streex spread his arms in a 'if you say so' gesture. "Whatever. Point is, Paradigm's a geneticist. He shouldn't be better at this than you."

"Evil geniuses specialize in everything, I guess." Bends mused mostly to himself, but the comment earned him a round of curious looks. "What? It's true. If the man's been plotting how to turn people into monsters - no offense - can you imagine the kind of brain power he's been holding back? He's probably been reading advanced programming theory in his lunch hour just to keep occupied, and let me tell you that stuff is enough to drive anyone crazy-"

"You had a point here somewhere, I thought," Jab said dryly.

"Well if you're going to take over the world, it's going to take more than just one set of skills," Bend pointed out reasonably. "Any super villain needs to be versatile."

Streex made a very strange face. "What makes you think he's going to take over the world?"

"Isn't that what they all want? It's like this one issue of _Space Marauders_-"

"Hold it right there!" Jab pointed at him viciously. "You are not comparing this to a comic book. Our lives are surreal enough as it is." He folded his arms. "Besides, _Space Marauders_ is a terrible series. You could at least use a half-decent comic for an example."

Bends looked mortally offended. "Are you kidding? Those books are the greatest-!"

"Well," Ripster said quietly to Lena as the argument continued. "We managed to stay on topic for a whole ten minutes that time."

She still had one eyebrow raised in an elegant arch. "Hacking the University networks?"

He ducked his head, not meeting her gaze and muttering something along the lines of, 'professor said it couldn't be done' and 'didn't look at anything classified'.

She sighed. "Oh John."

"It was a long time ago," he insisted defensively, and promptly changed the subject. "Anyway, can I get you to keep a real close eye on Paradigm over the next couple of days? If we're right about that cure, I want to make sure there aren't any weird side effects."

"Of course," she said, although looking for oddities in Paradigm's behavior was like finding the sharp end of a needle in a bucket full of pins. She doubted there'd be anything new come Monday.

* * *

As expected, the only development was that Paradigm's temperament was especially foul that morning. Most people sympathetically attributed it to his injuries, which Lena thought was an unnecessary kindness. He put on a nice face for the cameras, but the people he worked with weren't nearly so lucky. At best, he was short with them; at worst, he was disparaging enough to send more than one unlucky tech scurrying for cover in the more isolated corners of the lab.

Lena suffered equally, but her reaction was torn between annoyance and glee. The man could be surprisingly childish, and right now she was reminded of her brother's tantrums rather than a furious adult. He'd lost one of his precious side projects, and she allowed herself to indulge in a rush of minor vindictiveness. She consoled the new intern and pretended not to hear the shouting from his office, and did so with a smile.

None of this was unexpected. There were a few very quiet mutterings in the break room about how the Doctor was recovering from his terrible ordeal, and wasn't he acting just a little bit stranger than usual? But for Lena, who had known him before he'd become subjected to the public eye, this was business as usual.

Still, she was slightly wary when she had to take list of reports in to his office. The dragon's den, and he might as well have been breathing fire when he saw the uninterrupted sequence of negative results. All failures. She focused on the innocuous jug of water on his desk, and flinched a little when he pounded the table hard enough to send ripples through it.

"Still not enough!" he raged, clearly speaking to himself instead of her. People ceased to exist when he was focused on his work. "Why does Bolton's work still…ugh." He doubled over, catching her completely by surprise.

"Doctor?" Her alarm wasn't faked despite the fact that throughout the week she'd been routinely imagining that the world would be a better place if he simply dropped dead. Natural reaction spurred her to his side. "Are you-?"

"Stay back!" he hissed, his voice in a bizarre, high pitch that shook her enough to hesitate her. He turned away from her, facing out towards the window, still clutching his chest and breathing with a slight, shrill whistle that sounded disturbingly like a punctured lung, and she could only hover indecisively without a clue of what was going on.

And in the reflection of glass she saw it; a curled snarl that was too wide and unnatural, and through his thinning lips she saw the gleam of lengthened teeth. A face nightmares were made of, Jab had said, and it was lucky her scream was caught in her throat or else she would have voiced it. It was grotesque, but even as she watched the mutation seemed to be fading. His trembling shoulders relaxed as he got himself back under control. His teeth shrank back and flattened until his mouth could close normally, and though he was left panting there was no trace of the horror left.

So she did the only thing she could do. She took the part of herself than threatened to shatter, screaming and crying, and buried it under the knowledge that if she said _one wrong word_ that could be her own face next.

As normally as she could manage it, she said, "Hold on, let me grab you a glass of water."

He breathed hoarsely, still hunched, and she took the time she'd bought to school her face into earnest concern instead of revulsion. Adopt the mask, play the role. "Should I call an ambulance?"

"No," Paradigm said, a little too quickly. He tempered it with a more gentle, "That shan't be necessary Lena. I saw a physician just yesterday, in fact." He briefly touched his head wound, tentative sipping from the glass she'd offered him. "I'm just fine, thank you."

"If you're sure…" The temptation to flee as soon as possible was overpowering. Instead she forced herself to touch his arm. "But maybe you should think about taking the rest of the day off. You're still recovering."

"My work is too important to wait, especially with these setbacks." He searched her face thoroughly, but the mask of polite blankness was one she'd already perfected when working with him at the University. It served her well now, and he perceptibly dismissed her. "Get back to work. I'll be in down in the main laboratory if you need me."

"Yes Doctor," she repeated automatically, wondering how she'd be able to handle any of the lab equipment, or even a simple pen when her hands were shaking so badly.

* * *

It was getting harder to remember that he had a life outside of the brothers' little underground hideaway. Since Ripster had refused to budge from his work, Bends had been home, managed to sleep for a few hours and resignedly committed to a dull morning at the comic store (not to mention fielding a dozen applicants for taking the shifts Clint no longer could, consisting mostly of eager teenagers enamored with the idea of mixing work and play) before coming back. To all appearances Rip hadn't moved an inch, and the only mark of his progress was half a dozen scribbled notebooks containing ciphers that made absolutely no sense to Bends.

"By the way," he said to Rip. "Lena sent me a message. She says 'weird side effects confirmed, details later.' That mean anything to you?"

Rip blanched. "Yeah. Thanks Bends." He looked deeply perturbed, but it proved to be only a temporary distraction, and Bends resignedly gave up hope that the great white would be taking a break any time soon.

Although that computer was definitely at the top of his to-do list, there were still a hundred other things he could occupy himself with. The lair was still seven shades of unpleasant, barely livable, and despite the general consensus that a cure wasn't that far off, fixing it up was a decent time filler and about the only one the brothers had.

To slake the boredom, Jab had armed himself with a 'How to' book and had made a decent start on their electrical problems, so at least there was some more light, but the air was still chilled. Slammu insisted the brothers didn't mind it. Cold was a lesser concern than the smell of damp cardboard and mildew apparently, but Bends was pretty confident that it would fade in time now that the garbage had been cleaned out.

Streex had been making progress with the furniture, separating different areas for various activities including a couch purloined from the University's basement and a newly refurbished TV. Bends asserted that if they broke this one, they were fixing the next one themselves. Between that, the place was starting to look like some kind of scavenged clubhouse, and he made the mistake of mentioning it to Jab.

"Yeah, this place wouldn't hold out against the neighborhood kids," he said with a pointed scowl. "We should really make it a little more defendable. The last stronghold out against evil shouldn't have so many open doors."

Bends raised an eyebrow. "Last stronghold? I thought we weren't comparing this to a comic."

Jab made a face. "You started it….Can't we seal this place off a bit? I don't wanna take any chances that Paradigm'll be sending someone after us before we get that disk decoded."

Bends considered the problem. The maintenance station had six exits on its basement level, and one that lead up to the next floor which was just below the surface. Due to the winding nature of the steam tunnels, blocking most of those off wouldn't really inhibit their movement since you could always walk around. It would probably take care of the draft too.

"We'd need materials," Bends told him. "If you want something that'll hold out it'll have to be metal or brick. Or both." He thought about it. "We could do a few layers of reinforcement." That'd take time, but there was still the possibility that they'd have it. "Metal's easy to find. There's a scrap yard not far from here and it's pretty isolated. You could probably go grab some when it gets darker."

"You're not with Rip on the playing it safe thing?" Jab asked, quirking a half grin.

"You'll be fine as long as you're careful. 'Sides, I need to fix this mess you made." Bends gestured to the mess of wiring in his lap. "Electrician you aren't."

"Never claimed to be," Jab said, looking speculatively towards the ceiling as though he could somehow see up to the surface. Ripster had said he could still hear the sounds of the city even with the insulation of the building blocking it out as far as Bends's ears were concerned. So close, and yet so totally cut off from it…Bends was willing to take pity and give them an excuse to go out.

"Just take someone with you," he advised. He had a moment to contemplate the two possible choices - Rip wouldn't be moved from the computer - and realized only one would be really conductive to getting any work done, not to mention not taking any dumb risks. "Take Slam."

"Yeah, yeah." Jab probably saw through his ploy, but seemed agreeable enough, and Bends had high hopes that they'd actually manage to stay out of trouble.

* * *

It took about ten minutes for the euphoria of being back above ground to wear off before Jab could concentrate on the task, but another ten minutes was all it took to sidetrack him from it. Slam really should have expected it. It wasn't that Jab lacked focus, he just needed the right kind of motivation to channel it properly, and the junkyard was full of strange, shiny distractions that were difficult to resist after being stuck in the cramped tunnels for a couple of days. Slam couldn't say he wasn't half tempted himself, but he'd never found it easy to sway from a job once he'd decided on it. First he'd collect the sheeting. Then he'd snoop around with Jab.

As per Bends prediction, there were plenty of large pieces of scrap that would block the holes they were trying to plug. Some of them were almost large enough to do it in one go, but after collecting them, Slam realized that were wouldn't be any easy way to drag them back through the tunnels, so he put them back and started looking for smaller pieces. It didn't really take long, even working by himself, and afterwards he went to track his brother down.

Predictably, Jab had found the most alluring attractions: the cars awaiting their fate of being crunched into a cube. One in particular ad caught his eye, and as Slam approached Jab turned to him with eyes that practically glowed in admiration. "Would you look at this thing?"

The giant cab wouldn't have looked out of place in a monster truck rally. In fact, Slam was pretty sure that was where it had come from, with its bright, aggressive paint and the number of chips and dents it was sporting. It must have been a fine looking machine once, but along with the damage, the wheels had been yanked off and the engine had been gutted. It waited in solemn line with the others for unworthy death. Slam put a sympathetic hand against the door. "Kind of a shame it's here, isn't it."

"It's a waste!" Jab exclaimed, looking at it speculatively. "Wonder if we could save it?"

Slam blinked, pushing at the cab experimentally. It rocked easily. "Well we could move it…but what would we do with it?"

"Fix it!" Jab enthused. "It's big enough in there that we could stretch out, even like this." He gestured down at himself. "It'd be great!"

"Right up until the police pulled us over," Slam said, but with a grin. There was a surreal delight in the thought of owning something that big and powerful.

Jab tried the door handle and surely enough it opened. He climbed across the seat to poke around the dash board. Something clicked and expelled a garbled hiss. "Hey, radio still works."

The static whined unhappily as Jab attempted to tune it, and the garble of background voices eventually became one of unpleasant familiarity. Jab groaned. "Is this dude on every station or what?"

"Evening folks," the cheery voice buzzed over the static. "Guy-in-the-Sky here to give you the latest news on Fission City's mutant problem."

"I'll show him a problem," Jab growled, but at the last second held back the urge to smash the radio. He wasn't sure if the sudden flares of temper had increased with his mutation, or if he was just more aware of them now because of the potential damage he could do. It was annoying to have to hold himself in check all the time.

"Turn it up," Slam urged. They all had mixed feeling on listening to the blather of the reporters, but Slam would force himself through their careless ignorance on the off chance some news of their dad had come out. Jab made a face, but delicately turned the fragile volume knob.

"As you may know, the Bolton family is still at the top of the most wanted list, but the overwhelming number of reports from every quarter of our city has forced our city leaders to admit in the possibility that other mutants have been running loose under our noses for longer than anyone expected. Urban legends of crocodiles in the sewers and werewolf sightings may actually have been based on unrecognized mutant sightings!"

"I think he's reaching," Jab muttered softly. "Crocodiles? That's just dumb."

Slam hushed him.

"In a special KFIZ exclusive, we have a report that at this very moment our boys in blue are engaged in a high speed chase in the downtown area in pursuit of a vehicle in the possession of two unknown mutants."

The brothers shared a look, and simultaneously glanced around in paranoia. They weren't quite in the downtown district, not by a couple of blocks, but still..

"Not us," Slam said, sounding unsettled.

"Definitely not," Jab agreed, but it was difficult to shrug off the heavy feeling, and in the distraction he nearly missed the next part of the announcement.

"From our collaboration of reports, the vehicle is some kind of truck, potentially towing stolen property, and the driver is some kind of…giant lobster, yes you heard that right folks-"

"Wait, _what_?" It was a good thing the cab was huge. Jab would have hit his head on the ceiling when he flinched if it had been any lower. "Then it's-"

"Paradigm," Slam supplied, his voice dropping several degrees.

"The chase has crossed the Corgate Bridge and is heading west on 22nd street. Other drivers are advised-"

"We are so there," Jab growled, jumping out of the vehicle and dragging Slam with him. "Come on, that's not far from here."

"Shouldn't we let the police handle it?" Slam asked uncertainly.

"You want the police going up against _that_?"

That was enough to make Slam trot along a bit less reluctantly. "But how are we going to get there?"

Jab grinned manically. "Bends showed me how to hotwire a car once."

There was a silence of stout disapproval from Slam. Jab sighed exasperatedly. "Look, we'll leave it where the police can find it, okay? But if that thing has stolen something for Paradigm, it can't be good, right? What if he's trying to make more of his little gene slamming formula?"

Slam's eyes hardened. Jab might have felt a little bit bad about appealing to his brother's better nature. He had nothing so noble in mind, really, but if there was a chance to jump those two ugly critters of Paradigm's and shake some answers out of them then he was going to take it.

They'd tangled a few times already and Jab was pretty confident that he and Slam would be more than a match for them. Sharks were at the top of the food chain, apparently, but there was something else about those things that didn't sit quite right with him. Vicious as they were, they seemed even more uneasy with their own bodies than the brothers had ever been. Maybe Paradigm hadn't made them right. Maybe he'd even think to ask them about that when he was done getting answers about their dad.

* * *

"Bends?"

"Hey man, are you okay? You sound kinda funny."

"…Look, I really screwed up. Slam's gone."

Beat.

"What?!"

"Taken." A pause for a deep, labored breath. "By Paradigm's pets. How was I supposed to know he'd armed them this time." Quietly, "Damnit!"

"Hey Clint, don't space out on me! Where are you?"

"Downtown. Phone booth." The names of the streets were nearly lost in a hiss of pain. "Tell Rip, okay?"

"You can tell him yourself. Just don't move, we'll be right there."

The line was already dead.

* * *

When they finally found him, Jab looked about as well as he'd sounded. Scratched and bruised and hunched up painfully against a building, nursing ribs that seemed to be with bruised or broken. His head jerked upright at the sound of their footsteps, but even through he visibly relaxed when he recognized them, Bends wasn't reassured by the hazy, unfocused look in his eyes. It was mirrored in his tilted, drunken grin.

"Took you long enough," Jab slurred, making an attempt to get to his feet but Ripster was beside him in a heartbeat and had him stilled with a touch. Bends had thought it would be safer if he went by himself, but Rip was having none of it. He'd pointed out the unfortunate logic that if Jab wasn't well enough to walk, Bends didn't have much of a hope of carrying him.

"What happened to Slam?" Ripster asked quietly, ghosting Jab's cuts with his hands to answer the question he hadn't voiced; _Are you okay?_ Nothing looked serious, and the most pressing concern was for the youngest whose fate Rip had only heard from Bends's vague second hand explanation.

In response, Jab solemnly offered Ripster the contents of his clenched fist: two tiny, syringe-bodied darts. "Slam got about six of them," he said, his voice uneven with a mix of emotion that Bends tentatively attributed to shock and fury. "I only got two. He went down quicker. They could only take one of us."

He sighed, eyes threatening to close, but he seemed determined to get heard. "They had something else with them. A fish tank. Stolen from the aquarium. Said Paradigm was gonna…do something to it." He was getting less coherent. It must have been an effort to stay awake long enough for them to get here in the first place.

"Where did they go?" Rip urged, shaking Jab's shoulder to try and rouse him a bit.

"Didn't see. They went into the sewers. Had some kind of cart down there. Couldn't track it, and there's police all over the place there now. M'sorry." He managed to drag his eyes back open, his expression tortured. "I shouldn't have dragged him with me…I didn't think those creeps would give us any trouble-"

"I'll find him," Ripster assured him, slipping Jab's arm over his shoulder to haul him to his feet. "Come on. Lets get you home."

"Yeah," Jab breathed, losing a little of his tension. "Might need to…sleep this off a bit. You'll wake me when we go kick Paradigm's ass, yeah?"

"Sure," Rip said easily, but Bends was aware that his tone didn't really promise anything. Jab was probably too far gone to notice.

"Good," Jab murmured, leaning heavily on his brother. "Dun wanna…miss out…"

Bends waited a few seconds until he was pretty certain Jab was as close to unconsciousness as he was going to get while still on his feet before asking, "What are we going to do?"

Ripster's eyes were hollow and desperate. He'd hidden it well from Jab, but he couldn't from Bends. "I don't have a clue."

* * *

Paradigm's mood had skyrocketed from merely pleased to insufferable delight at what his creations had brought him. The squid had been at the top of his priority list for the next set of experiments, but it was immediately relocated to the back of the lab and promptly forgotten about in favor of the Shark…just a boy, really, but for his work, youth was an advantage. The cells took the change more easily in adolescence and early adulthood, one of the primary reasons he'd chosen the brothers for his greatest work. It was a shame he'd only been able to witness their transformation on the security tapes. The details had been hazy, but it had certainly been quicker and a lot more painless than any of his other experiments. They probably didn't know how lucky they were.

Here was the opportunity to indulge his curiosity. He'd anticipated a great deal about the route the brothers transformation would take. It had been necessary in order to adjust the gene slamming formula to preserve the most beneficial advantages of both species. To have arms instead of fins, to have the power of the shark's jaw instead of a human's, but such predictions were not the same as seeing it all for himself, and with wicked delight he took the initial measurements of the boy's altered size. The tape measure snaked around the boy's limbs, at first with detached professionalism, but as the results began to filter in from the computer's calculations, it began to linger in wonder. Muscle size in the biceps alone had increased by more than 100. In other places it was even more profound.

Paradigm had observed that, in the lab, both humans and rodents tended to react the same way. The frantic, breathless panic, the wild struggles, and the quiet whimpers of fear were nearly identical. The only difference was that rats tended to be smarter. Wait long enough and their terror faded to discomfort as they gave in to the inevitability of forces they couldn't comprehend. Humans resisted longer, their innate sense of superiority unable to reconcile with the indignity of being subject to a higher power. For some this resulted in anger and denial, for others it was quivering shock. The boy seemed to have reached a state of equilibrium between the two. Afraid but still aware, defiant but not outraged. On one level Paradigm was pleased that it was one of _his_ creations that broke the mold of the lesser beings. On another, he thought a little more subservience would be appropriate, but that would come later.

"So tell me," he said, preparing a new syringe. "Have you felt any discomforts since your evolution? Phantom pains, unusual cravings, anything of the sort? No?"

The boy might have sneered at him, but the expression may just have been an unrelated reflex of the drugged stupor. Paradigm was taking no chances. The boy's strength was unprecedented, beyond even Paradigm's most optimistic predictions, and the current circumstances would only magnify it. The Doctor had taken the estimated dose to keep a creature of that size docile and doubled it, but still the boy's eyes watched him intently thought there was only limited comprehension of his surroundings. Paradigm spoke as one would to an unhatched duckling, hoping to imprint the identity of a 'mother', or in this case 'master', and also because his own voice was a more comforting sound than the weak sighs and groans of the creature on the observation table.

"Now just relax," he crooned. "You may feel a slight pinch…"

The needle filled slowly with blood. The boy made a hurt noise, glaring accusingly at the source of the pain, but Paradigm was oblivious to either guilt or compassion. The restraints on the table rattled ominously, but there was no force behind the struggle. Paradigm petted the boy's head in an absently soothing gesture, earning a quiver of reaction that could have been either fear or revulsion, prompting Paradigm to be a little firmer with the caress. The boy would have to get used to his touch. Regular checkups were necessary, modifications would have to be made, and most of all Paradigm liked his creatures to know their place, and to submit to his touch whenever he pleased.

He sternly held one of the boy's dark eyes as his hand slowly and deliberately felt the contours of the ribcage, mentally comparing the difference between that of a normal human. The problem was working through the trick layers of tightly corded muscle to be sure he was measuring bone instead of flesh - it required a fairly solid pressure that probably wasn't all that painful, but the boy's heightened sensitivity made it seem so. His breath hitched, and it seemed he made some effort to turn away but the restraints and the drugs made it impossible.

Paradigm grinned. "This is all for your own good," he assured the boy, hands traveling further down the torso. "Far less invasive than cutting you open, wouldn't you say?"

It was possible that adrenalin could overcome the potency of the drugs with time. If so, remarks like that one would only speed the process, but a part of him was gratified to see the look of horror in the boy's eyes that only magnified as Paradigm moved his attentions to the vulnerable tissue of the abdomen. Even here he could feel the struggling vibrations of the boy's heart pulsing blood through his body. Organ size would have increased to accommodate for the heightened metabolism. It really was a shame that he wouldn't be able to get a proper look without the benefit of an autopsy, but that would mean wasting a test subject, or at least waiting until he was more sure of their healing factor.

Sharks had a magnificent capacity for regenerating their tissue, and it was one of the benefits he'd tried to breed into the brothers. He remembered facing off against John at the Institute, and despite having received several minor injuries since his transformation, Paradigm couldn't recall seeing any signs of such on the great white…but then it was possible he'd simply missed them. The details surrounding his own mutation were fairly hazy...

The mere thought made him sneer in disgust at both his own misfortune and the wasted opportunity. Through an unintentional but ingenious mistake of his own devising, he'd managed to minimize the effects, but it was still _there_ in his blood stream. It was possible that Bolton was the only one who could come up with a permanent solution to the problem, which was a bitter kind of irony. The bulk of the blame, however, rested with John himself, and in the back of his mind Paradigm was already hatching the beginnings of a plan to lure the eldest of the brothers using the youngest. If there was one subject he wouldn't mind sacrificing for the sake of science…but petty vengeance could wait until he was finished. His need for investigation was not yet sated.

* * *

"I told him to be careful," Bends said, not entirely sure if he was angry at Jab or angry with himself. He'd been so sure that nothing would happen, but of course, that hadn't counted on Jab's impulsive temper and monumental stupidity. Half of him was deathly worried that the hammerhead wasn't ever going to wake up again. The other half wanted to throttle him until it was a certainty.

"Like that's ever helped," Streex said, arms crossed as he leaned nonchalantly against the wall. Only the incessant tap of his claws betrayed his confidence. "He never listens. Probably doesn't help that his brain is two sizes too small either."

They were waiting. Talking filled the silence but it didn't seem to speed the time that Ripster needed to pace and think this out. The situation was bad. As a hostage they couldn't have done worse, because the fiercely ingrained instinct to protect each other was strongest for their youngest sibling. Ripster had managed to cover his stark uncertainty before they'd gotten back, but Bends had seen the raw vulnerability and that picture seemed to burn his mind's eye until he couldn't think of anything else. If Rip didn't know what to do, they were screwed.

But the great white said he had something. The beginnings of an idea that was slowly taking form, but he didn't want to discuss it until he'd thought it out properly. If it was a potentially bad idea, he didn't want them to agree on it too swiftly, because right now the need to act, do something, do _anything_ was too strong. Waiting for Ripster to work it out was far more painful, and was taking way too long, but if his mind had taken the same tracks that Bends's had then no wonder he was distracted. The mere thought of what Paradigm could do, even in just the space of a few hours, was terrible. Bends kept flashing back to Jab's all too detailed description of what Paradigm's face had looked like after his transformation. Rip had actually seen it. That was probably much worse.

Rip finally stopped pacing. The gazes of expectation that focused on him must have been nearly painful in their intensity. He didn't look happy. "You're not going to like this."

"Don't care," Streex said shortly. "What have you got?"

"Very little." Ripster sighed deeply, and collapsed gracelessly down on a nearby crate. "We're only got two things we can bargain with. Ourselves, and the disk."

Bends had entirely forgotten about it. The mysterious, locked files they'd lifted from Paradigm's computer that Rip still hadn't managed to get in to. Streex made a dubious face. "The disk is useless."

"Not to him," Ripster said. "There's bound to be something damaging on it, and he's not going to know we haven't already got the right evidence to bring him down. He doesn't even know that we've got it. It'll catch him off guard, and he might be more willing to deal."

Bends voiced the next unpleasant thought. "And if he doesn't?"

"Then I'll trade myself," Rip said without hesitation. "He'll do it. He loathes me. I smelt it on him after he took that needle."

Streex did some quick pacing of his own. Bends had noticed it seemed to ease the shark mentality whenever heavy thinking was needed. "It might work," he said slowly. "What do we do if he takes the bait?"

"Organize a meeting. Someplace isolated." Ripster rubbed at his eyes and Bends suddenly remembered that the shark hadn't been sleeping much prior to this, too busy with the disk. "I don't trust him not to try and double-cross us, so we'll need to be ready. Without Jab, it'll be two against three."

Bends thought about insisting to come along himself, but Ripster caught his eye. "Bends, I _need_ you to stay here. If things go wrong with Paradigm, I'll need someone to make sure the info on the disk gets to the right people."

"And the idiot here wouldn't know how if his life depended on it," Streex added quickly, gesturing at Jab.

Message received, loud and clear. He'd probably just get in the way. Bends sighed, but didn't argue. "Shouldn't you wait for Jab though? Three against three sounds a whole lot better to me." And if it would give Rip a few hours to rest up first, a relieving bonus.

"I'm not leaving my brother in that monster's hands a second more than I have to," Rip said coldly, and Bends knew he didn't have a hope in hell with that line of argument. Truthfully he didn't want to argue it too firmly either. Rip was again in the quiet mood that made the hairs on Bends's arms prickle with unease.

"Okay," Streex said firmly, cutting through the tension and throwing a semi-apologetic look at Bends. "So what first?"

"First," Ripster said, standing once again. "We make a phone call."

* * *

Ripster didn't want even a chance of the phone being traced, but getting the required distance felt like a waste of valuable seconds even if he hurried. He'd all but ordered Streex and Bends to stay with Jab on the off chance that he actually managed to wake up, but really he just wanted to be alone for this. He had the feeling it was going to be ugly.

He found an unattended pay phone in a vacant street and, for good measure, shattered the light to be sure he wouldn't stand out. It took every shred of will not to crush the phone in his hand or, less accidentally, smash his fist into the unit before the call was answered. Dread and fear and anticipation made him sick, but he forced himself to wait out the nerve-wracking sequence of rings and barely managed not to flinch when he heard the voice that would haunt his nightmares when shark instincts could be pacified enough to let him sleep deeply.

"Paradigm speaking."

He didn't swear, he didn't scream, but damn did he want to. "Alright Doctor," he said with shocking, icy calm. "Where is my brother?"

There was a surprised pause from the other end, but Paradigm recovered quickly and with evident gratification. "Ah. John…or is it Ripster these days? Have the reporters managed to infect you with their asinine little monikers?"

Ripster ground his teeth, a sound that could be very much likened to the sharpening of knives. Paradigm probably heard it. "If he's dead, so are you."

"Don't be ridiculous," Paradigm admonished. "After all the trouble I went to acquiring him, killing him would be a waste." Ripster could imagine him affixing a smirk to his face. "Your brother is alive and well, and awaiting your company."

"Can it, Paradigm. We're going to make a deal."

"Your immediate and unconditional surrender," Paradigm purred. "Or else-"

"I have a copy of all your files from the Meshinda Institute," Ripster interrupted. As expected, Paradigm was silenced by uncertainty, allowing the mutant to go on, "We're the only ones who know that you destroyed most of that building yourself, and we know _why_. There was stuff in that lab that would have buried you if the authorities had ever gotten wind of it, and there's proof on this disk that'll do it all the same. Lets see how your plans work out when the Mayor knows what you're really up to."

There was a lengthy pause as Paradigm considered, and when he spoke again his voice was no longer smug. "So you want to make a deal?"

"I'll destroy every copy I have of the disk," Ripster said. "And I'll give you the original, in exchange for my brother."

"I see."

The wait was worse than the first one. Ripster knew his bargaining position wasn't strong. He could only count on the Doctor's desire to keep his reputation untarnished against the price of Slam's life. To his thinking, it wasn't an even deal by a long way, but he wasn't thinking in terms of pure logic like Paradigm would. While he might get other chances at the brothers, it would be impossible to undo the damage releasing that disk to the public would-

_-assuming it did actually have the implicating proof that Ripster thought it did, and that Paradigm didn't call his bluff and was convinced that his encryptions had been broken, and half a dozen other maybes that he really hoped he was right about because otherwise-_

"I agree," Paradigm finally said sourly. "Not that you leave me with much choice. State when and where."

Ripster didn't dare let his relief sound audibly over the line. "Alright, this it how we're going to do this…"

* * *

Arrogant children, that's all they were. Paradigm seethed, all traces of his good mood evaporated, and the seaviates knew better than to get in his way as he stalked back through the laboratory. He hadn't anticipated…hadn't calculated...

Damn Boltons.

He had no intention of taking his indignity quietly. No, he had something perfect in mind. Something devious, something damaging. Right now he didn't care so much about the collateral. Fury was making his jaw start to ache again. His teeth were changing a little, growing longer and sharper and threatening to cut his tongue if he talked, so he didn't. He needed a focus, something to stop the mindless bloodlust of the piranha from cutting into his rational thought. He couldn't afford another failure.

The table at the back of the lab was reserved for his unfinished projects. The ones that weren't quite perfect, or nearly finished, or untested, and his hand went unerringly to the soft metal brace in between a pair of Bunsen burners and assorted pieces of wire. It was one of his few mechanical experiments, but designed to work in tandem with the genetic modifications he'd already made to a subject's body. In this case, it would be perfect.

The boy was still and quiet on the table. His metabolism had cut through the worst effects of the drugs, but by this point he was exhausted from Paradigm's ceaseless tests. He barely stirred when Paradigm affixed the collar around his neck, carefully locking it under his jaw. The metal shell was a hybrid material, near impossible to break even by a mutant, and it would be difficult to remove, particularly when the pins pierced the skin to let the catalyst into the bloodstream.

He wanted John to see it work. Paradigm intended to memorize the look on the shark's face when he realized what Paradigm had done. The thought of vengeance pacified the piranha enough that he could think clearly again.

The previous prototype of the collar had been trialed on another test subject who had admitted - under its potent effects - that the sensation of its activation was much like having white hot needles shoved directly into the brainstem. Shortly thereafter Paradigm had realized that the harsh frequency he was projecting into her skull was having an adverse effect on the subject's brain, but was not quite quick enough to save her from a traumatic mental breakdown. She had broken, and he had discarded her still twitching remains like he had all the other failures, but since then he had perfected the device. He was reasonably certain it would perform to specification without too many adverse effects on the boy…which is to say that severe personality fragmentation was still a possibility but it shouldn't inhibit his ability to function like the weapon he was supposed to be.

The mere thought of making a killer out of the most peaceful breed, the irony, the unnatural beauty of it, delighted him.

Still, there was only one way to find out if it actually worked as it should, and if the results were unsuccessful then at least he had another three potential subject to test on. With that in mind, he cheerfully fired up the device watching serenely as the boy's eyes widened first in shock, then in pain, and then went entirely blank.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note**: Um, yeah. Took a while. _::hides::_

* * *

**Chapter 7 - "...David felled him with a stone."**

Streex shivered in the brisk wind, preferring to blame it on the cold he could barely feel than the nervous tension. "Where is he?"

"He'll be here," Ripster reassured him, but years of experience in reading his elder brother's tone informed Streex that Rip only hoped it was true. There were no guarantees, armed with only a hastily conceived plan of desperation against Paradigm who was hardly a stable human being. All he had to do was decide not to show up and they would lose.

The sun was starting to rise. A few hours ago, Streex would have paid a month's worth of allowance to be above ground and able to see it. Now he glared at it balefully. "Think Jab's awake yet?"

"Bends would have called."

The seconds felt like starved and lonely years without something to fill the silence, and Streex wished Ripster would keep talking to him because he couldn't handle the lack of noise. It left him to contemplate the hazy fragments of memories he had from his own laboratory nightmare-

Okay, he lied. Those memories weren't really hazy anymore. If he took the time to sort them into order and context he could probably remember the whole thing pretty damn clearly; he just didn't want to. But the worst parts kept coming back in flashes.

Since Rip seemed to have the whole lookout thing covered, he spent a few minutes distracting himself by scavenging through the various piles of concrete and steel. Personally, he didn't think Fission City needed another mall, and about half way through construction, someone in the mayor's office had apparently come to the same conclusion because the building site had been abandoned for a couple of months now, much to the disappointment of Bobby's social clique. He'd been too cool to join in with their juvenile mourning, of course.

He found a piece of steel that was about three quarters of his height, and with a little application of force (and man, did he love the new strength they all had) he made a bend at one tip and had himself a reasonably facsimile of a hockey stick. He'd once considered trying to make the team in high school before he'd realized how many hours it'd take up with just training for the sake of one glorious game every other week, but he'd kept practicing. He didn't have his skates, but the weight of the stick felt good in his hand, and he satisfied his urge to hit something by making targets out of stones.

He could feel Ripster glaring at his back, but the expected rebuke never came, so Streex cheerfully went on doing it, satisfyingly picturing each one as Paradigm's head. He only stopped when Ripster straightened.

"They're coming."

"About damn time." Streex considered giving up his stick before deciding he felt better with a weapon. He knew he and his brothers were dangerous enough without them and, unlike the others, he even had claws that could do all kinds of nasty damage in close quarters, but he didn't really enjoy brawling like Jab did. It was twice as damaging to both parties and, call him crazy, but he just really didn't like pain all that much. "Where and how many?"

Rip pointed. "Just two."

"Well…" Streex rested the end of his stick in the dirt. "Maybe we won't need your backup plan after all."

"Here's hoping," Ripster said. Truth be told, if Paradigm wasn't willing to deal on either of their offers, the backup was only a tentative step from announcing this as a suicide mission: the final resort that didn't really count on either of them getting away.

He concentrated hard on those two signals as they moved sedately from the opposite end of the construction yard towards he and Streex, and that didn't sit quite right with him, but he wasn't sure what to make of it. This wind was with them, and he could catch the distinctive, unpleasant scent of Paradigm – the potent leather of his coat was a giveaway, along with rubber and metal which suggested he was wearing his armor, but was that paranoia or preparation? He could also smell his brother, which made him relieved and edgy all at once.

He didn't smell fear. Oddly enough, the clichés about that were true. Fear did have its very own, special scent: salty, bitter and sharp, but attractive in its own way to the shark mindset because it was the hallmark of prey. It wasn't easy to make the shark feel fear, but the brothers were certainly all capable of it. Terror was a very human reaction, and a very useful one that reminded them that no one was invincible.

Slam shouldn't have been unafraid. He shouldn't have been walking so close to Paradigm without hesitation or a struggle. Something wasn't right here. His stance lowered instinctively. Streex noticed. "What's wrong?"

"Don't know," Ripster said curtly, feeling dread right down to his bones. "Don't like it."

Paradigm sauntered like he had no place in the world he'd rather be in, and the mere sight of him was enough to raise invisible hackles and have Ripster growling sub-vocally. Streex unconsciously crushed part of his pipe and didn't notice, fighting a wave of vertigo at the sickening shades of memory, but they vanished entirely when he caught sight of Slam.

His little brother stumbled after the doctor like a sleepwalker, seemingly tethered by an invisible leash. He swayed crazily, shoulders hunched and head drooping, and every time he fell behind there was be an obedient surge, a few quickened steps, that would put him back on the Doctor's heel. The sight was so wrong Streex could feel his world tilting. The way Ripster stopped breathing was also worrying, in a distantly unimportant kind of way.

Paradigm's hands rested casually in his pockets. "Here I am, holding up my end of the bargain, but you both look so surprised."

"You-!" This wasn't the bargain. This was the bargain being set on fire and thrown out a window. "What the hell did you do to him?!"

Slam had staggered to a halt and stood with unnatural quietness; a clockwork toy unwound. His eyes were wide but glassy, sightless. He didn't see his brothers, or anything else for that matter.

Paradigm was smirking, enjoying their horror. "I fixed him, of course."

"Fixed?"

"Now he knows who his master really is…and I think it's about time the two of you remembered as well." Paradigm raised his hand and clicked his fingers. The noise had the effect of an electric shock on Slam, who twitched and turned slowly to track the source. Paradigm's voice overflowed with unbridled venom as he ordered, "Bring your brothers to me…don't bother to be gentle."

Streex wished he could say that there was some kind of hesitation, but the pause seemed only long enough for Slam to process the words before he turned his empty gaze on his brothers and lurched forward. The weight of the pipe was reassuringly heavy, but Streex knew instantly he'd never be able to bring himself to hit his little brother with it.

"Oh shi-"

* * *

"-it!"

Jab sat up far too fast and could have sworn the bed tried to buck him off, but rampaging furniture couldn't distract him from the realization that the scents of his brothers had faded, which meant they hadn't been around for a few hours which meant _they left him behind, god damnit!_

"Bends?" he called, doing his level best to stand up despite the persistence of the ground to sway unpleasantly under his feet. Whatever it was that Paradigm had created to drug them, it worked far too well for his liking, but even disoriented he knew he'd been unconscious too long. Was it morning already? It felt like it, but then by his standards that just meant any hour before lunchtime and the underground was timeless.

The main room of the place he wasn't willing to call home yet was empty save for the indignant scampering of rats as they fled from the echo of his call. For a moment he thought they might be all the company he had, but from above he caught a rustle of movement, and that got him scampering ungracefully for the ladder. Under less dire circumstances, he might have reconsidered doing something requiring that much coordination in his current condition…or maybe not.

The upper floor of the maintenance station hadn't been cleared; only Streex tended to prowl around up there, getting as close to freedom as he could. Bends, sitting amongst the rubble, started when Jab threw open the hatch, leaning heavily on the top of the ladder. "Where are they?"

"Whoa, Jab, you don't look so hot." Bends crawled over and started ineffectively helping the hammerhead up. "Should you really be up already?"

"My brothers," Jab said warningly. Bends should know better than to think misdirection would work.

The blond hung his head. "They went out to make a deal with Paradigm…to get Slam back. They went out to that old construction site near the school."

Jab was going to hit them when he found them. He dizzily tried to focus. "How long ago?"

Bends squinted at his watch. "About half an hour…?"

Maybe he wasn't too late then. "You've still got my bike, right? Tell me you fixed it."

Though John was known to tinker with motorcycles from time to time, Clint preferred Bends to do his repair work. For one, Bends complained less about Clint's mistreatment of his machine. Street racing got kind of dirty sometimes, and his bike took all kinds of unwarranted damage.

"Yeah I did…hey, hang on!" Grabbing Jab's arm only resulted in getting dragged, but Bends clung persistently. "You look like you're about to keel over and we don't know what happened. They might still call."

"Don't count on it." Jab had gotten a good look at Bends' watch too. Anyone on the streets at this hour was either up too early or too late, and hopefully wouldn't trust their eyes if they saw him. A mutant on a motorcycle wouldn't be the easiest sight to take.

"Then I'll go with you."

"No," Jab said firmly, finally shaking Bends off. He glared, more distracted and irritated by the need to hurry than really angry. "I screwed up, so I'll take care of it. It's not like you'd be much help anyway."

When he had the time to think back later, Jab would wish he could take that part back. Bends stopped cold, stunned enough to say nothing more than, "Fine."

"I'll bring them back," Jab promised, mostly to himself, and missing Bends' conflicted expression.

"Hope so," he murmured, concern nearly covering the trace of bitterness in his voice.

* * *

Early mornings had never agreed with him and it seemed his shark instincts weren't any more appreciative of it. Hammerheads were dusk hunters, Jab recalled. Rip had done a bit of background research on their species on the off chance that it turned up anything interesting. Jab hadn't really listened. He didn't need to know the science behind why he could tear through metal with his teeth, or pick up the sound of a roach scuttling across the room, or his now insane sense of smell. That last was taking him a long time to get used to, but there were times when it was undeniably useful. The potent smell of the city still made him cringe, but he caught the scent of his brothers a mile away.

The scent of blood carried even further, but it wasn't until he reached the edge of the construction sight that he realized it shared the same origin. At close range it was overpowering and damn, he should have eaten something first. The last of his drug haze was wearing off, but in its place was the shark's ever present hunger. He quietly tore himself a hole in the fence and let those instincts guide him to the source.

The frames of unfinished buildings jutted like naked bones from the ground, and it gave the wind a voice as it rattled and whistled through the remains of the site. Jab wasn't a believer of superstitions or omens, but the eerie noise did nothing to soothe any of the bad feelings he had. The silence clearly indicated that whatever had gone down here was already over, but was that good or bad?

He was coming to the sour understanding that having a perfect sense of smell was hardly infallible. Though he knew his brothers had definitely passed this way, there wasn't any way to tell which way or when. Whenever the wind changed he had to double-check his direction, and the closer he got to the blood the less he noticed anything else. Powerful feeding instincts wouldn't be swayed from their goal, and they informed him that he was slowly approaching something that was still warm and alive, but still.

He heard Streex groan softly.

Cursing under his breath, Jab hurried to the source and found the tiger shark pinned under a pile of crooked support beams. A hurried attempt to lift them proved he wouldn't have an easy time of it by himself, even with mutant strength. He nudged Streex's shoulder, voice unconsciously kept low. "Hey, moron, wake up."

The part of his mind that had been quietly preparing itself for a panic over possible spine fractures was eased as Streex glared up at him blearily. "…late, jerk."

If Streex was seriously hurt, he wouldn't have sounded so annoyed. Jab nudged pointedly him, hiding relief. "Should have waited. What the hell did you get yourself in to?"

With Streex awake, they might be able to shift the beam together, but the action was forestalled as he belatedly recognized the echoes of footsteps. Predator-sharp senses had been too occupied with evaluating the helpless Streex as a possible meal, and only at the last moment did they decide to warn him that someone or something had managed to get behind him and close. He half-rose, hackles raised and fists ready. Slam gave him a blank look.

"Oh man," Jab breathed, his pulse spiked from the jolt of alarm. "Am I glad to see you, bro. You okay? Hey, help me move this thing."

Streex bucked weakly under the beam. "Jab, _move_, he's not-!"

Not expecting an attack from that quarter, Jab had turned his back, but the scent of blood had woken his reflexes from their stupor. By habit he wasn't listening to Streex very carefully, but he sensed the threat without need of the prompt. His dodge was unconscious and natural, but only after he'd backed out of Slam's range did he rewind the event and realize why he'd done it. He blinked indignantly at Slam. "Hey! What was that for?"

"Paradigm," Streex wheezed by way of explanation. "Did something. Dunno what, but-"

Jab had seen his brother's fists take out steel and concrete, and the reach of his arms was deceptive. He dodged again with a hiss – not quite fast enough now that he was actually thinking about it – and though barely grazed, it _stung. _Slam wasn't screwing around, but in spite of that, there was something off about his movement. A slowness between swings that he might have thought was hesitation except there was nothing of that in Slam's body language. It was more like the halting movement of horror movie zombies.

Had he lost a day somewhere? Was this what Paradigm could do with just a couple of hours to work with? He stared disbelievingly. "No way."

"Yes way," he was corrected with insulting mimic. Splitting his attention to track Paradigm's voice nearly cost Jab an eye as Slam remained undistracted. Resting on his heels, arms crossed in a manner that translated to boredom, Paradigm seemed largely unconcerned. "Your brother belongs to me now."

For a moment, all Jab could picture was the satisfying crunch of his fist intercepting Paradigm's nose, but the bastard was hiding on the sidelines, well away from the fight and with Slam's imposing presence as a barrier. Revealing himself was perfectly planned, perfectly timed, and perfectly executed in a way that made Jab fully aware that he couldn't do a damn thing and was just frustrated enough to still consider trying, despite the obvious futility and likely stupidity. The only reason he didn't was because five rapid-fire realizations distracted him.

One, Streex was still pinned and, despite obvious effort, wasn't going to be able to move without help. Two, Slam was zombified or brainwashed and he didn't have a clue what to do about it. Three, Ripster was missing in action, and the fact that Paradigm didn't look worried made his insides lurch. Four, his nose was informing him that two other alien scents were fast approaching and he was familiar enough with Paradigm's other pets to recognize them at a distance, and five, his ability to maneuver was quickly becoming a problem with Slam herding him back against one of the half finished walls, effectively boxing him in. Sure, he might be able to break through it, but that would cost him precious seconds and probably bring the foundation beams down on his head. The concrete had only been erected for the bottom floor, and above them the half-started beginning of a second story wobbled precariously.

The last revelation came a little slower than the others, hindered by denial, and he was forced to consider that he might actually be royally screwed.

"Give up now and you'll spare yourself the pain of your brothers," Paradigm offered arrogantly, like he'd know all along it was going to end like this. The final act of the play he'd predicted three scenes ago, with all the characters on the stage resigned to their predetermined roles.

Overkill, Jab seethed. All the pieces on the board to corner one lowly pawn. Paradigm figured it wouldn't cost him anything, and adding insult to injury was just the kind of cruel pettiness that Jab had come to expect from Paradigm. He hadn't known the man very well back when he'd been human, and hadn't wanted to for reasons that he'd never thought too hard about. The man just left a bad taste in his mouth.

So did losing, for that matter, and he was faced with two impossible choices, but when the greater evil was to stand his ground he had to take his chances with the one that would only be hurting his ego and his convictions.

"I'll take my chances," he hissed, and did what no pawn should do. He broke the rules, and deliberately knocked the only part of the wall that had seemed moderately stable. As his final act of penance, he ducked under Slam's guard and shoved his brother clear as the first screech of weak steel announced the precursor to rusted metal finally buckling under pressure.

The whole structure came apart like a tower of cards, making the ground tremble ominously and raising a cloud of cement dust. Streex coughed and rubbed it from his eyes, his head ringing from the sound of it. Paradigm – far enough from the center of destruction to remain unaffected - stood tense and scowling, waiting for the air to clear, but despite the magnitude of the destruction, there was no sign that the hammerhead had been caught in it.

The drill-nosed fish and the lobster-thing melted out of the shadows, the latter full of glee. "Is he dead?"

Drill-nose sniffed around the edge of the rubble and sneered. "Gone."

"Then find him," Paradigm ordered, brushing the grit from his coat.

The two slunk off, torn between resentment at the chore and excitement at the prospect of the hunt; Paradigm hadn't specified what kind of condition the shark should be brought back in. Slam stayed where he'd fallen after Jab's push, directionless without Paradigm's specific instructions. Streex glanced at him worriedly, but knew better than to call out. Slam didn't hear him, and trying to talk his brother down was how he'd ended up pinned in the first place.

After a moment of contemplation, Paradigm sighed quietly, as though it were all a disappointing tea party. The click of his fingers made Streex flinch, and Slam homed in on the sound. "Follow me."

If Paradigm had passed a little closer than Streex would have been able to…well, chew his leg off maybe. He didn't have the leverage for much else, but although he was seemingly been dismissed as far beneath the Doctor's notice, Paradigm wasn't careless enough to give him the opportunity. In spite of common sense telling him that not drawing attention to himself would be a _real_ good idea, he couldn't suppress an unexpectedly feral growl; a low, warning rumble that promised more trouble than Streex could probably deliver. Paradigm's flicked over him in a cursory kind of way, but if the toppling of the building hadn't managed to phase him then one petty show of resistance sure wouldn't.

Still, Paradigm smirked. "Why don't you just stay put until I finish with your brother." As though Streex had any choice in the matter. "Don't worry. We'll be back for you."

* * *

Slobster's antennae twirled in aggravation. "He's not here."

Slash hissed. "Maybe you're not looking hard enough."

"And maybe," the lobster challenged, "he ran away."

Slash made a dismissive sound as he restlessly upturned a barrel, though it had little chance of being able to hide a shark. "Well I'm sure he would have had time to, with all the noise you're making."

Slobster gave him a dull, sullen glare that said he wasn't quite sure what Slash was implying, but he recognized the tone. The concept of a stealthy pursuit didn't even enter his limited brain, whereas Slash at least understood that unwary prey was easier to catch.

"He's still here," Slash insisted. "Paradigm said he wouldn't leave the others behind."

"If he's smart, he will," Slobster grumbled, but arguing further would suggest that, somehow, their creator was wrong. Paradigm was never wrong, so therefore the shark must not have left despite what any survival instinct would have dictated.

Four against one, and the last wasn't even the most dangerous, as Paradigm had patiently tried to explain to his creations. Hammerheads could be vicious, and the temperament of the second eldest Bolton would only have enhanced this trait, but as hunters their primary strength was in numbers. They didn't take down large prey alone like great whites or tiger sharks, and they didn't have the imposing size of the whale shark.

Slobster hadn't really listened. Information tended to drain from his head like water through a sieve. All he understood was that he had to follow the Doctor's orders. He wasn't the first of the Doctor's creations, but he was what Paradigm had deigned to be the first success. A very tenuous title when compared to the likes of the Boltons, or even to Slash. He barely qualified now that the bar had been raised, and Slobster knew it well enough to be wary.

Meaning as much as he wanted to give up and return to Paradigm he couldn't while he remained empty handed, but while Slash was still hunting furtively amongst the pylons, Slobster was slowed by the glare of the sun. While right at home underground, in enclosed buildings, or at night, the light burned his eyes unpleasantly. Paradigm didn't often let them roam outside, and almost never during the day, but he was eager to have all the sharks in his possession by morning. A calculated risk, but the Doctor was masterful at those.

Grumbling in annoyance, Slobster shielded his eyes with a claw and rounded the corner of another unfinished wall segment only to come face to face with his target. Jab leaned against the brickwork, casually examining his fingernails. The bored glance he gave the Seaviate was dismissive.

"So what took you so long?"

Slobster's hesitation was only long enough to plot how he was going to tear the shark's arm off. He didn't even consider the oddness of this picture until he took a great step forward and suddenly found that the ground ahead was only a burlap cloth and some artfully scattered dirt hiding an unexpected hole. With a squawk of surprise, he found himself abruptly falling down into the earth.

After only a second, he recovered the presence of mind to react. The hole was deep but narrow – probably having been intended for one of the foundation beams – and he lashed out with both arms and legs, digging into the dirt and simultaneously pushing his back against the wall until friction began to slow his fall. Though the bottom half of the shaft was slick with clay, he managed to stop through sheer persistence and strength before he reached the bottom.

The sky was now only a mellow circle above him, but he was far from finished. His claws were as good as pinions. He could still manage to climb back up, and when he found that shark he would-!

But whatever plan he had in mind was stalled when bags of dry cement powder started raining from above. Slobster's bulk had barely fit down the shaft; the bags could hardly miss him. The first slammed hard across his shoulder, and though his armor protected him from all but a dull impact the force made him slip downward another couple of inches.

Only after the sixth bag had fallen did the shark peer smugly over the edge of the hole and brazenly called down, "And that's why sharks are at the top of the food chain."

Slobster snarled an incoherent reply, practically spitting in animalistic fury until as a final insult Jab dropped the wheelbarrow he'd used to cart the cement down the shaft as well. Beneath the layers, the lobster's curses were practically silenced.

* * *

"Where did that idiot get to now?" Slash mused, searching for any sign of his partner's rusty red hide. It was practically impossible that Slobster would be able to disappear when he moved like an armored tank and was just as subtle, but inexplicably Slash had lost sight of him. Maybe he'd found the shark, but more likely he'd just forgotten their mission and wandered off. Slash hissed softly in aggravation, and then tried to console himself with the idea that if he brought the shark back himself, not only would he get the pride of the battle itself, but he'd also earn the Doctor's approval.

Assuming the Doctor wasn't too engrossed in the capture of the Boltons. He certainly hadn't given more than his distracted appreciation when Slash and Slobster had brought the big orange one back. It was much the same with every new experiment, but Slash knew the Doctor kept him for a reason. He was stronger, superior, useful, and as long as he kept being so, then one day the Doctor would take notice. His current fascination with the Boltons would only be a passing phase, like everything else. Only their disobedience and persistence made them different.

Slash was almost looking forward to seeing what Paradigm would do to the others. The whale shark had certainly changed his tune…

His murky, gleeful daydreams were rudely interrupted by a nearly ignored shift of movement above him, but he wasn't quite fast enough to avoid the shark's kick as he swung down from the beam. He took it in the side instead of the back, but it didn't feel any less painful. Still, Slash was back on his feet after only a moment. Now he knew how the shark had managed to elude them so long, but how he'd managed to climb around on the unfinished beams without bringing the whole thing down was anyone's guess.

"Funny," he said, stooped low in a pretense of injury as he prepared to lunge. "I didn't think sharks liked heights."

"Paradigm obviously doesn't know me very well then." Jab twirled an object in his hand. "You dropped something."

Slash made a startled, spluttering sound, hastily glancing to his thigh where the tranquilizer gun should have been holstered, but of course now it rested in the shark's hand. Slobster didn't carry one; his claws couldn't manage the trigger, but Slash had been entrusted with it once more for the purpose of taking down the shark a second time. His fall must have knocked it loose. He raised his eyes, glaring hate. "You wouldn't-!"

The shark pulled the trigger, but instead of aiming high the dart took Slash in the leg. Immediately it began going numb and cold, like ice had started traveling through his veins. He staggered, off-balance, but grit his teeth and endured. He wouldn't be able to run, but it would take more than a single dart to bring him down, as they'd already proven when their situations had been reversed.

Deep down, he was perhaps just slightly worried. The look in the shark's eye wasn't entirely sane, and the way he leveled the gun between Slash's eyes was filled with malice.

"What did Paradigm do to my brother?"

Slash hissed his amusement, buying time while he tried to figure out if he could tackle the shark before the trigger was pulled. "What makes you think I'd know? The Doctor doesn't explain himself to us."

"Well you'd better start thinking," Jab told him grimly. "Because I'm running out of reasons not to pull this trigger."

"You can't kill me with that," Slash said. He knew because the Doctor had told him so; even if he were injected with every dart that gun had it wouldn't be enough to kill a mutant. Paradigm hadn't wanted any mistakes, after all.

"And what's to stop me from gutting you afterwards?"

As he watched, Jab's eyes slid very deliberately over to the right. When he copied the motion he saw a bunch of jagged, mangled looking lengths of shaft. Any one of them would make a usable, though not effective, stabbing tool.

Jab's smile was malevolent. "Don't think I won't do it."

If Slash had any doubt, he might not have caved, but the weak, moral-bound nature of the Boltons seemed to have skipped this particular brother. Maybe it was just because he didn't have much to lose at the moment. "It has something to do with the collar! That's all I know."

Confusion, followed by the slow return of memory. The collar might have been overlooked in the initial confrontation, but Slash could see Jab thinking back and could practically pin-point the moment he remembered the thin, metal-linked collar around his brother's neck. It almost gave him the opportunity to make his move, but just as quickly Jab's focus was back in the present. "And if I get that off, he'll go back to normal?"

"Maybe." Slash didn't think it would be a good idea to mention that the last person who'd worn that collar had ended up with her brain cells turned to mush. When Jab's finger tightened on the trigger, he hastily amended, "I don't know! The Doctor hasn't fully tested it yet."

"Then I guess you aren't much use to me."

Slash had an unpleasant vision of his unconscious body being staked to the ground with rusty lengths of metal. "Wait! I can tell you other things!"

"I don't have time for an interrogation."

The dart took Slash between the eyes. His expression glazed over quickly; the sedative's effectiveness was proportional to how closely it was injected to the brain, and after only a few moments he toppled. Jab counted off a few extra seconds to be sure it was safe and then kicked Slash's body for good measure. "And you're lucky I don't have time to kill you either."

That took care of the minions. Now there was just Paradigm to worry about. With adrenaline racing, high on success, and armed with new information, he was almost looking forward to it.

* * *

The skeletal building might as well have been a giant jungle gym for Jab's enjoyment, and the barely-risen sun was at a perfect angle to hide his approach. He'd avoided the central area of the site. It was the least finished, had the least cover, and the scent of blood radiated strongest from there. He knew it was where Paradigm had been waiting.

He'd been very tempted to go back and get Streex first, but when the wind blew in the right direction, he could hear snippets of his brother swearing under his breath. Obviously he was still stuck, but not in any real trouble, and Jab was inclined to leave him. He was going to have enough trouble watching his own back, let alone Streex's, and there was a subliminal sense of urgency for the insight he'd been subliminally aware of all along.

Ripster was bleeding. Maybe not much more than Streex had been, but so far Jab hadn't seen or heard any sign of his older brother. It didn't bode well.

Despite the temptation to storm his way to the center and take Paradigm on head first, he forced himself to go slow. Sneaking didn't come naturally, and the agonizing pace put the shark's instincts into rebellion, but he was well aware that Paradigm wasn't like those creatures. In spite of their talking, Jab couldn't shake the idea that they weren't quite human, and when he dwelled on that too long it made him shudder.

Whatever they were, they were stupid. They hadn't looked up to see Jab ghosting their movements, waiting for his opportunities. He didn't like to give Paradigm any credit, but he couldn't count on the man to make the same mistake, to he forced himself to inch stealthily along the upper walkways, and then when he ran out of places to climb to, he dropped back to the ground and crept from one sparse patch of cover to the next until he was as close as he could get, although his hiding place was only a low wall of brick that forced him to practically lie flat. After an uncertain minute of trying to decide if it was safe to look without getting caught, he gave himself a mental smack and quietly pried out one of the uneven bricks so he could peer through the hole.

Paradigm was pacing. Jab didn't bother to suppress his grin. There was a definite line of agitation in the man's posture, slowly rising in intensity. Slammu stood passively nearby, not perfectly still, but swaying as though to a slow, silent song. Jab stared hard at the collar that he'd overlooked the first time in the struggle. Woven links of metal that looked like it fit snugly to the skin, with no obvious controls or clasps. It wasn't very thick. He was going to tear it off and then tear it to pieces…or maybe strangle Paradigm with it if he had the opportunity.

Ripster was on the ground. Jab's heart clenched a little, but the rise and fall of his back proved that Rip was still breathing. A closer scrutiny revealed a cluster of small darts peppering his shoulder. Must have been Paradigm. Drill-nose had been a lousy shot. He touched the stolen gun reassuringly, making sure it was still stuck into his belt. His first impulse had been to crush it and throw it away, but then shooting Paradigm with his own toy would be perfect irony. A hundred hours of arcade games probably wasn't quite the same as real-world experience, but he didn't think his aim was too bad.

Paradigm abruptly halted in his tight, circular route and turned his vile gaze on Slam. Jab tensed, but all Paradigm did was click his fingers – that same, ominous sound that seemed to be the only thing Slam reacted to – and say, "I'm going to get the car. Guard John. Don't let anyone get close and don't let him escape."

Jab could feel his pulse start to race a little faster as Paradigm stalked away. How far was the street from here? A five minute walk at the rate Paradigm was going. Enough time to try something while he was gone, but would Slam sound an alarm if Jab came out? Would he even notice? Come to think of it, he wasn't sure how Paradigm's commands actually worked. He considered the problem until he was reasonably sure Paradigm was well out of range, and decided he was over-thinking it.

He stood up. Slam wasn't looking directly at him, but Jab should still have been in his field of vision, and he wasn't making any attempt to be subtle. No reaction. Whatever mind-control method Paradigm was using, it wasn't too complex; like leaving a really limited AI in charge of Slam's body. If it could only follow one set of instructions at once then Jab was safe as long as he didn't get too close to Ripster…but how close was too close?

He approached cautiously, giving Rip a wide berth but slowly winding close to Slammu. Only when he got to about twenty feet away did Slam even register his presence, turning rapidly to watch Jab's approach, but he didn't move. His eyes were unnerving though. Like dark, empty glass. It made Jab uneasy, but he kept their gazes locked as though he could will Slam into stillness, and he watched for any sign that he was crossing a boundary.

Maybe the real Slam was watching, trying to fight his way out, but there was so sign of it.

Each step brought that wicked collar closer to his reach. He hesitated just before moving into Slam's personal space, but there was still only that blank incomprehension. He was close enough to put a hand on Slam's chest, to reach just a little bit further and-

At the last second he realized the ploy. Why would Paradigm bother explaining himself to Slam, who didn't hear anything anyway? Lena had said the Doctor was a good actor, and Jab had seen a few of those TV performances himself. The neatly timed departure was just a little too convenient, and would have been the perfect lure to draw him out while his brothers were unwatched.

Damn. Jab had underestimated him after all.

He distinctly remembered hearing the soft clack of a trigger being pulled, but what happened next was less clear. Only when he was aware of himself again did he realize he had moved and the soft _whoosh_ that echoed in his ears was the noise of the bullet having gone wild. He blinked. Paradigm looked intrigued.

"Impressive reflexes," the Doctor observed, lowering his tranquilizer gun. "The four of you are still surpassing my expectations."

Jab had only taken a half step back. He was still close enough! He lunged for the collar, but not before Paradigm had made his next order.

A click of fingers. "Attack."

Slam moved. Jab was faster.

The collar shifted as he groped for purchase, and the moment he tried to tear it off he knew he'd made a mistake. Slam's expression didn't change at all, but a thick trickle of blood began falling from each side of his brother's neck. The red was a shocking contrast to Slam's pale coloring, and the unexpectedness of having caused it made Jab release the collar like it burned. He had paused, but Slam had not and, heedless of injury, his strength wasn't pulled for the punch that sent Jab flying.

The ground was rough dirt and loose slate, and didn't cushion his fall in the slightest. His lungs felt bruised, and the stone felt like it had shredded his back and the side of his fin, but he knew better than to stay on the ground. He wincingly staggered back to his feet, but Slam was still processing the new distance to his target and Paradigm was laughing.

"A noble effort," Paradigm applauded mockingly, moving closer to Slam. "Your older brother tried the same, though not as successfully, as you can see." He gestured to Ripster's still form. "And he would have discovered as you just did, that my device won't be so easily removed. The pins on the collar are only to hold it in place, but you could do some irreparable damage if you try that again."

Jab would have spat an insult if he hadn't been too absorbed in the pain. From his shoulder blade to his waist burned like road rash – those rocks were sharper than they looked – and he thought something might be cracked if not broken. If there was any chance he could have willed Ripster into waking up it wasn't working, leaving him to face the unpleasant task that was starting to seem impossible.

Cooper had never been a fighter, but he hadn't needed to be. His size and strength had meant people thought twice before provoking him, and he hadn't been all that easy to provoke in the first place. Even now, Paradigm's mind control didn't lend him any skill or finesse, but that wasn't needed when strength alone made up for it.

Battling his brother, exhaustion, and now pain all at once? He might be able to manage, but he'd taken a measure of that collar's strength. The metal had no grip, and wouldn't tear without a bit of struggling that would only hurt Slam further, not to mention it would leave Jab open for another hit like that one. He didn't think he could take any more.

He pulled the stolen dart gun from his belt and took aim in one smooth motion, so quickly that even Paradigm's genius would have been hard pressed to keep up with it. He focused on Paradigm, imagining being able to plant a dart between his eyes just like he'd done with Drill-Nose…but the gun wasn't quite steady in his hand. He calculated his chances of being able to even hit Paradigm, whose armor protected all but his head, and painfully forced himself to switch targets. With a silent apology to Slam he fired.

He knew better than to think there would be an immediate reaction. At least, he consoled himself, Slam didn't seem to feel the sharp sting of the darts when they connected, and after a few seconds his gentle swaying became more pronounced, and Slam fell heavily to the ground.

Paradigm's expression barely changed. If anything he only looked slightly annoyed. "Even after I calculated a high chance that you would use my device on your brother instead of myself, I didn't actually think you would. How foolish of me."

Jab vengefully threw the empty gun as far as he could. "It's just you and me now."

"And you seem to think that this will end well for you." Paradigm smirked. "Your brothers aren't here to help you."

The way Paradigm blanched when Ripster suddenly grabbed his ankle was the sweetest thing Jab had seen all day. Rip gritted his teeth. "Says who?"

Unsteady footfalls announced a new arrival. "Yeah slimeball, now you're in trouble."

Jab turned, not quite able to believe it. Streex was definitely looking worse for wear. How he's managed to dig himself out from under the rubble was anyone's guess. They'd probably all be forced to listen to it at great lengths later, with the proper heroic embellishments, but right now Jab thought he could suffer through it with joy. He turned a victorious grin on Paradigm. "You were saying?"

Paradigm kicked out of Ripster's grip. The great white was conscious, but not strong. The change of odds seemed to make Paradigm think twice, however, and the Doctor retreated a few steps as he rethought his next move.

Jab forced himself to stand straighter than his injuries liked, because even if it was going to be three to one, none of them were in great shape. Streex was limping and Ripster barely looked like he was standing, but there was an electric current of ferocity in the air. Paradigm might be able to take them, but Jab saw a flicker of hesitation. For all his planning, Paradigm hadn't expected it to end up like this; he'd said so to Jab already. There were holes in his logic, flaws in his knowledge, and the brothers kept being able to surprise him when the stakes were unreasonable and most would have given up.

Arrogance and steel calm failed for a moment. Jab saw Paradigm doubt, and took a menacing half-step forward.

Paradigm retreated; not like a dog with its tail between its legs, much to Jab's disappointment, but cautiously, and with his face twisted in an ugly grimace.

"Your luck will run out sooner or later," he sneered, and for a moment Jab could have sworn he saw a shadow of that thing Paradigm had mutated into. Sharp fangs and dead eyes, but Paradigm was gone before he could confirm it. They waited breathlessly until the cling of his armor was nothing more than a distant echo, and Ripster took the opportunity to fall over again.

"Ouch," he grumbled tipsily, seeming to be struggling with the same unpleasant hangover Jab had woken up with. "Is he-?" He gestured vaguely in Slam's direction.

"Drugged," Jab offered, feeling a bit dizzy himself. "We need to get that collar off before he wakes up."

Streex had already rolled Slam over and was gingerly pulling out the darts. At Jab's words, he frowned and reached for the collar.

"Watch it," Jab snapped, brushing Streex's hands away as he knelt at Slam's other side. "It's hooked into his neck. You'll hurt him."

Streex glared. "Then what's your plan, genius?"

"We need bolt cutters," Jab said, trying to think if he'd seen anything like that lying around the site. "Or a saw, or something."

"Bite it," Rip suggested.

The two of them looked at him incredulously. With a tried growl he added, "Didn't you tell me you managed to chew through metal the other day? Just get it off him."

Streex scooted back. "All yours bro. I don't wanna touch anything Paradigm did."

"Thanks," Jab muttered, looking uneasily at the collar. Though he'd been surprising his awareness of it for the last few minutes, Slam's neck was still bleeding, and it wasn't the collar he wanted to bite in to. The thought was nauseating enough to keep a handle on the shark's hunger, and with a look that dared Streex to comment he leaned down and fit his teeth around the collar.

It was, bizarrely, chewier than he would have guessed. The outside crunched but the inside was wires and tubes, and it leaked something that tasted like battery acid and the charge of electricity made his teeth tingle. He forced himself to get through it and spat out the mouthful with distaste, hoping his tongue wasn't about to melt or anything equally unpleasant.

Streex peeled the rest of it off, his expression darkening as the cause of Slam's wounds were revealed to be a set of nasty looking spikes on the inside of the collar, two on each side of the throat and one on the back of the neck. It was a good thing Paradigm was long gone or Jab might have been made a murderer.

"Do I hear sirens or are my ears ringing?" Ripster asked, a frown of concentration on his face.

Jab listened. "No, those are sirens."

Ripster looked bleak. "Time to go."

"Is it okay to move him?" Streex asked, a hand on Slam's arm.

"I don't think we have much of a choice." Rip got to his feet, unsteady but determined. "Let's go."

* * *

The sirens overhead were far too close. They really should have run further, deeper, but considerations had to be taken. Streex was still limping heavily but was wisely silent instead of drawing attention to his bumps and scraps. They were all hurt, all exhausted, but even so Ripster and Jab would have gladly taken the weight of their youngest brother and carried him home if waking him hadn't been much more pertinent.

"Coop?" Jab was almost afraid to touch even though the whale shark hadn't ever been the most fragile of them. The gouges in Slam's neck were ugly, barely trickling now, but his breathing was disturbingly shallow.

Ripster searched worriedly for a pulse and counted it off to every second they shouldn't be staying. "Slow," he offered vaguely. "But that might be okay for us. I don't think we ever checked…"

Since it didn't look like they were going to move immediately, Streex slumped down against the wall. "He'll be okay now, right?"

He shouldn't have asked, despite how badly he needed to know. None of them had that answer, and reassurances would have been kind lies, but luckily they didn't need to think of a response. Slam groaned softly. The three of them tensed reflexively, but under Paradigm's control, their brother had been unnaturally silent. A groan, a mere whisper of breath and voice, was still something.

"Hey bro," Jab tried, gripping Slam's shoulder tighter than he should have but unable to help it.

Slam's eyes inched open by fractions as the other held their breath. The moment his oddly dilated pupils were visible he suddenly blinked rapidly with a long, drawn out, "Huuh?"

It still took long minutes before he approached anything like coherence, and Ripster didn't let go of his wrist the whole time. There were twitches of tension in Slam's arm, but when he managed to focus on his brothers the flashes of panic seemed to ebb, and in its place confusion reigned. "Where…?"

Slurred, but at least he sounded like himself. Streex's head dropped sharply, as though he were about to pass out from relief or maybe just collapse in exhaustion, but he caught himself in time to say, "Welcome back to the land of the sane."

Slam's expression was uncomprehending, but none of them cared to explain. It would have taken time they didn't have. Gripping the walls and each other for support, they managed to haul Slam to his feet and stagger slowly back home.

* * *

The bleak hours of pre-dawn were slowly becoming the _real_ morning, with daylight and singing birds and the AM rush hour. Bends still hadn't slept, and was seriously considering using up one of his sick days, but there was no doubt that Paradigm would be in his office at nine o'clock sharp and damned if Bends would be outdone by him. Insomnia prompted by guilt was a terribly effective motivator. Besides, he was going to need to give the University his two weeks notice ASAP. He'd miss it, but he needed those hours for other things and it was hard to stay when the empty offices of the genetics department were practically haunted with Paradigm's influence and Bolton's memory.

When Slam was finally soothed enough to drift into uneasy sleep, Ripster dared to leave him with the other two and came to sit by Bends. "You okay?"

Bends smiled weakly. "Shouldn't I be asking you?"

"We'll be fine," Ripster said, quietly but with certainty. "He'll be fine." _But something's eating you_. He had to give Rip points for perceptiveness. He hadn't even had much of a chance to be cold to Jab yet, but hours later those callously thrown words were still gnawing at him.

"Yeah," Bends sighed, rubbing his eyes that felt like they'd been scrubbed with sand. "Just feel a bit useless, you know?"

"We needed you here," Ripster pointed out reasonably. "Things might have gone worse than they did. Now, how'd the results on that disk go?"

Bends was just awake enough to be wry. "Well there's good news, bad news, and weird news."

"Someone managed to crack it?" Ripster asked hopefully.

"A few people did," Bends said, but before Ripster could look too enthused he added, "And they found out it was linked to a self-destruct clause that crashed their computers and deleted the data the moment it was hacked."

Rip looked appalled. "Let me see."

He hadn't lied to Paradigm. He'd deleted every fragment of the Doctor's files off his hard drive, but before that he'd gotten Bends to put the whole file up on the internet and posted to half a dozen relevant message boards with the same statement that had once prompted him to hack the University servers. A dare no self-respecting computer wiz could resist: _I bet you can't unlock this._

It was like invoking a free work force. Dozens of people had answered the challenge, and found exactly what Bends had said. A self-replicating virus that had detonated in their computers and destroyed any information they could have used. Most people had posted back warnings, assuming the file was a hoax, and warding others away from trying it for themselves. No wonder Paradigm hadn't been worried about the disk. He already knew it was useless.

That covered the good and the bad news. The weird news was a single message in Bends' email account.

_got it _

_fp _

Ripster gave Bends a look. "Related?"

Bends shrugged. "I didn't leave my email anywhere when I posted the file."

"If they're a hacker, they might have found a way to follow you back."

"That's why I thought I'd run it by you." A few clicks and the message was safely stored away. Bends stared at the screen morosely. "I guess we'll see if anything comes of it."

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note**: Another chapter, and this one didn't take nearly so long. As always, I bow down to the mastery of my co-author Luna, who makes this chapters readable. Love you, hun!

Jasper belongs to our twisted minds. Ripley does not, although we had to give him a name because when he featured in the 'toon he never had one as far as we know. Also, reviews make us happy! Indulge us, maybe?

* * *

**Chapter 8 - "A space for breathing."**

Comic books were Bends' guilty pleasure. There was no sight more empowering than half a dozen newly shipped boxes full of crisp, colourful pages that the rest of the world wouldn't get to see for another hour. The reason he came in early on a Saturday had less to do with stocking the shelves and more to do with some gloriously uninterrupted reading time. He cracked open the first box and just inhaled the scent of ink-glossed paper. A face peered eagerly over his shoulder.

"Is that the new Phantasma comic?" Jasper asked with reverence.

Bends couldn't help but share a grin. "Yep. Fresh off the press."

"Can I…?"

"Ah," he admonished, swatting the other's hand away. "Not yet. Owner's privilege. Put the other boxes out and then you can read it before we open up, okay?"

Bends might as well have told him that Christmas had come early. Jasper looked thrilled in spite of the prospect of work. "Okay!"

Bends shook his head ruefully as he watched Jasper happily set out on the chore. In the long line of dark clothed, mascara smudged and oddly pierced candidates who had applied for the job while trying to convince Bends they would assume the role with the utmost seriousness, Jasper had stood out for exactly the opposite reasons. Red haired and bubbling with enthusiasm, Bends had somewhat selfishly decided that he'd rather work with someone who loved their stock than someone who pretended they didn't. Jasper seemed to be an uncomplicated kind of person, and that was exactly what Bends was looking for.

Every time he thought about telling Jab about his replacement he found himself staring guiltily at the floor. It still didn't feel quite right to take on someone without consulting his partner, who'd been the mastermind behind the whole business (though Bends had managed most of the research), but it wasn't as though Jab could sit in on the interviews and Bends was sort of avoiding him without thinking too hard on the reasons why.

He just…needed a short break from that insanity. He hadn't been back to the underground for a week, and that guilt ate at him too, but there were practical considerations. People were starting to notice his mysterious absences, Suspended Reality had been gathering dust, and his mother – who he spoke to maybe twice a year – had called him to make sure he was okay and pose some truly mortifying suggestions about counselling. Soon after they'd hung up, he'd actually wondered if maybe she'd had a point and that, more than anything, made Bends realise he needed to wade back into the waters of reality.

As far as he knew, he wasn't missing anything important. The brothers were probably still nursing their wounds. The battle had been a nasty one. Bends had lingered around long enough to see Slammu awake – worried by the story of what Paradigm had done to him at the construction site – but the youngest had been mostly bewildered and claimed not to remember much of anything. It had been silently and unanimously decided that this was probably for the best, and Bends had been sure that when he left that everyone would be fine.

Half a dozen times he'd picked up the phone to call and make sure, but each time he'd put it down and reminded himself that a loony bin wouldn't be a fun place to holiday. They could last without him for a few days, and as Jab had rather untactfully pointed out, there wasn't much Bends could do for a bunch of irritably healing sharks. What he could do was induct his new trainee so that he could leave the management of the shop to someone else if another emergency happened, and that's exactly what he intended to do.

* * *

One more week of quiet and sober silences and Streex thought he might go nuts. _Like someone had died_, he thought sardonically, and then banished the thought with a sick feeling because it might very well have worked out that way if Jab had been a little less lucky. It was all very well that they were still alive, but in spite of what they'd been telling each other, none of them were 'all right'.

Well Streex was, but in his opinion he was the only one, and it was a state of mind that was slowly being eroded by the lack of attention.

Although his precious mirror now held a place of honour in his room, his reflection was no substitute for actual company. When Lena arrived with her usual allotment of groceries, he practically bounded out to meet her.

"Let me help you with those," he offered virtuously, taking the heavy bags with strength to spare. Despite the strained avoidance the brothers had around each other, the maintenance base had still been miraculously evolving with the slow, profound changes of a glacier. One corner was starting to look something like an actual kitchen; arguably the most important amenity they needed, with tables in place of benches, a row of uneven cupboards, and a fridge that he was probably better off not knowing where Jab had scavenged it. His nose already told him things about it he wished he could unlearn.

"Thanks Bobby," she said. Her smile was the first he had seen all week, and he reflected that it was getting way too serious around here. She seemed to be thinking the same. Her expression turned worried. "How are things here?"

"Oh, you know." He was prepared to shrug cheerfully and then turn the conversation to lighter matters, but he knew in an instant she wasn't going to buy it. Instead he said, "Rip's working himself into a frenzy and Jab hasn't been around much, and Slam…"

He hesitated, not knowing what to say. She put a hand on his arm.

"We've all talked to him but I don't know how much it helped. I think he might remember more than he's letting on, but I don't want to push." The whole situation stank to high heavens, and it didn't help that Ripster and Jab should have been taking care of it but weren't.

"Where is he?"

"Downstairs." Streex hadn't actually known they had another floor below this one until he'd desperately tracked Slam down a few days ago, half worried his brother had been taken from them again. Upon finding him, Streex had tried to berate him with an impassioned speech on how much they all needed to stick together, but Slam had just dully informed him that he shouldn't have worried.

"I think he's worried about going back to the surface," he confided to Lena. "I've tried to get him to come up with me, but he always says no."

He didn't add that Slam had looked faintly panicked with each suggestion no matter how gently Streex had broached it. It was an expression that should never have to cross his face.

"It must have been hard on him," Lena suggested softly. "Not being in control of himself like that. Anyone would find it terrifying."

It hadn't been exactly peachy for the rest of them either, he wanted to say, but there was no point dwelling on it. It would never happen again, not while he still breathed, and he knew Rip was already making plans to that effect. Slam would be given the space he needed…but somehow Paradigm still needed to be taken care of, and thought Streex had been dying to ask what those plans were, he hadn't worked up the courage to ask. He wasn't all that keen on seeing Paradigm again. Jab was the opposite. In fact if Rip didn't announce his grand scheme soon, Streex thought that Jab might just go and do something about Paradigm himself.

"I know," he said. "But I don't know how to help him and he's been like that for a week…"

"A week's not that long," she reminded him with a wane smile.

"Seems like it down here," he said morosely. "Nothing to do but watch the mold grow. I think Rip's started giving names to the rats."

That made her smile a little more real. "Don't you have the TV?"

"Erm…" He looked over to the broken box that had once been a television. "Jab broke it," he said before she could start getting ideas about whose tooth marks it bore. "He saw that interview Channel 8 did with Paradigm."

She sighed deeply. "Ah."

"Puts on a good performance, doesn't he?" Streex remarked sourly. "I was hoping Bends might fix it for us but he hasn't been down in a couple of days. It he okay?"

The question felt a little awkward. What was okay anymore? But he'd gotten a brief sense of bad vibes when Bends had left and nothing had seemed to have been resolved since then. Yet another thing his idiot older brothers weren't taking care of.

"I'm sure he's just busy with the shop," Lena said. "I'll call him, okay?"

In a distant sort of way he realised that Lena couldn't really associate with Bends outside of work anymore. It was too risky; if Paradigm caught her snooping, she wouldn't want to lead him to anyone else, and if the brothers didn't have at least one person helping them on the surface, then life would get a lot harder.

"Thanks Lena," he said, meaning it on multiple levels and then, unable to take himself seriously for more than a minute, he added in a charming tone, "Don't know what we'd do without you."

"Starve," she observed pragmatically, nudging one of the grocery bags towards him. "I wouldn't want you boys to go hungry."

"No TV would be safe," he returned dramatically. "Hey, when you talk to Bends, could you ask him to bring us a couple of comic books? Coop loves those things."

"Of course," she said, looking over her shoulder. "Is John here? I need to talk to him before I go."

"He's probably still wrapped up in the computer," Streex said, looking through the groceries with a bit more interest now that Lena had reminded him of their existence. He pointed. "Down that way, second door on the left." He inhaled deeply. "Is there jerky in one of these?"

She smiled, faintly amused. "Don't eat it all. The others might want some too."

"No promises," he said, digging enthusiastically through the bags.

* * *

The overhead doorbell rattled again; it'd been doing that all day. Sunday was popular for customers, as Jasper has learned rather quickly. So when it went off yet again, Jasper didn't lift his head from the order catalog this time. If they really needed help, they'd come to the counter, and if they tried to pilfer merchandise, that's why they had a surveillance system. Or someone more honest would catch them. Sunday. Church day. Jasper trusted his nose on these things.

Knuckles knocked on the wooden half of the counter, the same half Jasper was manning. "Is Bends around?"

Jasper looked up, and took a moment to stare.

Customers were, generally, of the 21-and-under age range. Fathers wandered in on occasion with a child in tow, buying two or three different issues, twenty-somethings came in looking for the mecha builder kits, and old men liked to stare at the showcased collector's items from their younger years, recalling what it was like to have heroes in those days (that, however, only happened once so far; Jasper initially believed the guy to be lost). The man asking for Bends was none of the types he'd seen so far, so he probably wasn't a paying customer. The fact he was looking for the boss was equally telling. Most people he'd seen like this guy fit the poetry-reading, bongo playing weirdo description, all right down to the small round shades and long ponytail.

But Jasper didn't judge. Not that horribly anyway. Maybe it was a friend, or a financial supporter, or a mentor, or a dude-from-another-shop-area. Business tycoon? Mafia? Did Bends play bongos for this guy? "Lemme find him for yah."

With a quick glance around the store (giving a good surmising of people who probably didn't need his help), he left his station and scampered into the back half of the shop. Bends would be in the way-back back office, looking over the sales and shock versus the total. Totally nothing Jasper wanted to ever handle himself. Math and numbers were too stressful, unless it was comic issue numbers. He was pretty good at those, if he said so himself.

Jasper poked his head in the doorway with a quiet knock to the frame. "Some guy's looking for you."

Bends was, in Jasper's unprofessional opinion, looking somewhat lost when he raised his head in question. Even his shades were askew and Bends unbothered to correct them. "Who?"

"Dunno. Grey, portly, fell off the 60s truck?" Jasper didn't have the modesty to tell him that might have been insulting, as he reasoned it would never get back to the guy.

"That," Bends said, stretching backwards awkwardly. He must've been hunched like that for over an hour, "is Ripley Greyson. And he's probably the man I need to see."

The Ripley man was still waiting patiently in front of the register, as was a customer. Jasper jumped to ring him up while Bends took one look at Ripley's struggling expression, and _hoped_. "Tell me you have good news."

Ripley produced a white plastic tube into sight from below the counter line, and grinned. "They finally came in."

Bends' shoulders sagged with absolute relief, like half a burden was temporarily gone. Ripley was already unscrewing the top and pulling out three glossy poster pages from its depths. Jasper eyed them as the customer made small talk.

"I'm still not positive whose bright idea it was to call the damn thing 'Malleus Maleficorum'," Ripley said as he let Bends unfurl the posters. "You know we're going to be strung up by the wiccans and druids."

Bends grinned wryly, because that had been Clint's idea, and Ripley hadn't mentioned his name in Bends' presence since the news became city-known, save once. It was sketchy ground, after all; how did one act when a business associate became involved with scandals and mutants, possibly against their will? Though there were the rumors and speculation that the brothers had willingly given themselves to Bolton's experiments, and it was turning the under city inside-out and upside-down.

And now, the posters were in, of a project they'd joked about one day, spoke to Ripley about it out of fancy, and Ripley made most of it happen under their noses. That had been five months ago, and in a couple weeks, the independently owned businesses of The Stringpick Musium and Suspended Reality would be hosting some form of free-for-all music competition. Because everyone liked loud, obnoxious music.

Jasper was hanging over his shoulder; it was getting to be a quirk Bends recognized as 'obvious curiosity'. The boy was going to get in trouble for that, some day. "What are those?"

It was a three-piece advertisement, the main bill flanked by information and events. They'd been advertising since a month ago on flyer papers, and the complications getting the proper display images had been grueling and frustrating. Of course it was entirely experimental: who ever heard of a concert endorsing people to cosplay before?

"Dressing up is for movie and anime fanatics, kid," Ripley said, and not for the first time. "You don't need fancy costumes to go listen to good music."

"Says the man who still set it all up willingly," retorted Bends, and not for the first time either. "Thanks, man. These look absolutely amazing." And the he handed them off to Jasper, who was eyeing them with so much glee that he bewitched himself onto them. "Go put these in the display case at the front, would you?"

Jasper beamed, as if a great honor had been bestowed on him, and took the three posters and the set of keys Bends handed to him before zipping toward the front door. Ripley snickered as he watched. "Got yourself a firecracker. What is he, fourteen?"

"Old enough." Which meant more or less Bends' own age. "Gotten anyone new since last week?"

"A few more auditioners, yep." Ripley passed along a sheet of paper over the counter. "I'm going to see them this coming weekend. Dendrophilia come from north Cali, Justin Abaring wants in – I know I made you listen to him once – and some newbie Canadian soloist, Kresnick, called up for a chance. He's not bad either, from what I heard on his MyPlace account."

"Sounds cool." Bends' schedule conflicted with the auditions, which left him only time to usual spot for the later half of the run of try-outs on previous weekends (but then again, Clint had been there to supervise previous). Maybe he could lock up early, since the list was so short this time around. He did want to see who'd be playing, after all. "And the caterers?"

Ripley smiled. "Found us one. And they're willing to supply for a cheap cut, depending on the turnout. Signed them up practically on the spot when I saw the spreads."

And it seemed things were finally going right, if only for the moment. Easy to ignore the last week when pieces of _anything_ were beginning to fall into their right places.

* * *

The hardest part was to know where to start looking. When almost everything could be accessed through the internet, how did you sift the gold from the sand? Ripster had been working ceaselessly for days, and while he had certainly learned more about Paradigm, his father, this city and the whimsical attitude of the public than he'd ever thought he'd need to know, Rip still couldn't tell how much of it was useful.

Information on Paradigm was as enlightening as it wasn't. With his new status as the Mayor's personal confidant on the Bolton case, newspapers had been eagerly digging up every scrap of information they could on the man, saving Rip the trouble of doing it himself, but certainly none of it so much as hinted at Paradigm's hidden megalomania. Just his profound genius.

Luther Paradigm, childhood prodigy. Born to a perfectly normal family but quickly coming to the attention of various government programs that accelerated his learning curve beyond what any ordinary school could provide. Graduated to a college equivalent at age nine, with a particular bent for chemistry and biology. Was a pivotal member of several sponsored Think Tanks before joining the military at age eighteen. Served in a number of volatile overseas missions as a scientist, physician, weapons researcher, tactician and finally commanding officer, and the leader of many successful and a few celebrated victories.

Paradigm was a war hero, Ripster discovered with disbelief. He'd never had guessed it, even when he'd just known the man as another studious University professor like his father.

It was during that time period that Paradigm had lost his eye, although no one actually knew the story surrounding it. Paradigm was reportedly unavailable for comment in all instances it was mentioned. After a full decade Paradigm resigned with full honours, apparently wanting to reacquaint himself with his more scholarly roots. He returned to his hometown of Fission City and began to establish his own empire, founding Paradigm Enterprises, a successful, but modest business. Quickly scanning through a biography of the company revealed that it traded in laboratory equipment, biochemical supplies, food production, and a number of other unrelated side ventures that seemed to exist mainly so Paradigm could fund his private research.

Then there was a period of time that the papers couldn't account for, in which Paradigm was vaguely described as being 'abroad for business purposes'. Ripster was sure it had to be significant, but there nothing outright suspicious about it except that during that time the remaining members of Paradigm's biological family were all killed in unpleasant but unremarkable circumstances. Work accident, heart attack, cancer…his sister was killed in a shooting during a failed bank heist, and those responsible had been caught and imprisoned, having pled guilty to the crime. Ripster had stared at those reports for hours, trying to will some kind of connection into existence, but there was nothing to be made of it. Paradigm was, to all appearances, regretful but largely unaffected. He had never spent much time with his family, being severed from their mundane lives by virtue of his vast intelligence and driving ambition. If he had secretly loved or hated them, there was no outward sign.

The next chronicle in Paradigm's life was one the reporters latched onto with zeal. Eight years ago Doctor Luther Paradigm had been introduced to Doctor Robert Bolton.

The two men couldn't have been more different. While Paradigm had been a child genius, Bolton had apparently been a late bloomer in the world of science, though his theories were just as ground-breaking as Paradigm's earlier ones had been. Where Paradigm had been a military man, Bolton was commended on several occasions for his strict pacifistic views. Two brilliant, if diametrically opposed mindsets, but their partnership had been a long and successful one. John had seen those awards on his father's wall but hadn't often stopped to wonder how they'd been earned.

Robert Bolton and Luther Paradigm had all but revolutionised the field of genetics…and then somehow, it had all gone wrong.

The papers of course laid the blame with Bolton, which Ripster stubbornly overlooked because the timeline was too important to ignore completely. Everyone suspected that Bolton's near obsessive study of genetics had been somehow prompted by the death of his wife. Even John had suspected it, though he'd never been brave enough to ask outright. For a brief time, Bolton had claimed to be working on a new project that had outlined in non-specific terms a study of advantageous evolution. Introducing traits from a thriving species into a waning one, such as giving the disease resistance of the shark to an illness fraught species of seahorse. Improving on Mother Nature, the papers whispered, was a very controversial topic, but one that had gained the immediate attention of many other geneticists for the near unlimited uses of such a technique even while the conservatives rumbles in discontent.

There had been a lot of pressure from the public, too many greedy benefactors trying to cut in on the action, and a number of unscrupulous fellow researchers who weren't above stealing the theories for themselves.

Bolton had eventually hushed up the project, working on it only in secret until most had forgotten about it. People had eventually decided it was a fantastical idea, too much like science fiction, and that technology wouldn't have made it feasible for another decade.

Bolton had been underestimated…or maybe it had been Paradigm who finally perfected it. Ripster couldn't know, but he was sure that Paradigm must have stolen the work from his dad and warped its purpose to create creatures like himself and his brothers.

In any case, the papers now described Bolton's increasingly secretive behaviour as the first sign of his spiral into madness. Paradigm mournfully reported that even he had been cut out of Bolton's work. Ripster didn't doubt that. Bolton must have eventually suspected, and then he'd disappeared…

John had been a good student. He memorised all the facts like a history report, organising the timeline of events in his memory, but as interesting as it all was it was only the past. He still needed to find information that would help with the present, which meant continuing his search. The mere idea made him sigh unhappily at the computer screen.

"Time to take a break?" Lena suggested softly putting a hand on his shoulder.

He made an agreeable groan. "I can't even tell if any of this stuff matters or not. Maybe Paradigm's just unhinged and everyone's been missing it."

He felt safe confiding in her the one thing that made his head hurt the most, and the one thing his brothers would never want to hear. "For all the bad things he's done to us, he's done a lot of good things in his life too. Great things, even. Why…?"

She sat down. "I don't know."

"Neither do I." Ripster stared blankly at the screen. "I wonder if Dad would."

"I hope we get to ask him." She handed over a thin folder. "Here's those clippings I mentioned. That theft at the Aquarium?"

Jab's mangled retelling of Slam's kidnapping hadn't been at the forefront of his mind for the last few days, but at Lena's prompting he remembered the one unresolved element. If Paradigm's creatures had stolen something, they must have had a reason for it. He glanced through the papers. "So it was a squid?"

"A rare species from the Barrier Reef," Lena agreed. "I suppose it's valuable to the right kind of people."

"I don't think he's going to sell it." He leaned back in his chair. "When we went into that first lab of he, he was keeping a bunch of sharks there. The same breeds that the four of us ended up. Great White, hammerhead…"

"So you think it's part of another experiment?"

"To create more mutants like us, yeah."

She thought about it. "Why is he using sea creatures? I mean, if he needed test subjects, why not use animals he can get more easily? Stealing rare squids is kind of high profile. That can't be good for him."

Ripster shrugged. "No clue. Maybe it's the way the geneslamming formula works. Maybe he just likes fish."

He managed to make her grin. "Or maybe he's just crazy?"

"That too," he agreed.

* * *

The worst kind of listless was when you were too tired to even try to rise above boredom. Slam couldn't find the energy to plug in his gameboy or pick up a book, or do anything at all. Even the mindless entertainment of the TV had been denied with Jab's tantrum earlier that week. Slam wasn't too upset, but then he didn't feel much of anything at the moment except sit and pretend to sleep.

Real sleep was plagued by dreams, the kind he didn't want to remember and barely did, but in inevitably got him into the frame of mind where he started to think about it all again and he didn't want to. Thinking was painful. For the first few days that had been literally accompanied by headaches and dizziness, but now it was just a general state of an alien feeling that he supposed might be depression.

He felt haunted. Sometimes he'd swear that the acrid, disinfectant smell of Paradigm's lab still clung to him even though he'd washed it off half a dozen times. His neck would twinge, and for a jolting moment he'd feel the pins of the collar sticking in like knives. Memories came to him in flashes, leaving him exhausted and restless and more afraid than he should be because it was never anything but blurs and distorted sounds. He didn't even remember enough to get upset over, and that was somehow worse. The blank parts of his memory mocked him, and his brothers telling him not to worry about it was only a careless dismissal of his worst fears.

They didn't mean it that way. Slam knew it, and would have accepted it…except doing so meant thinking, and thinking meant hurting, and it was far better to just not think at all. Floating in limbo was fine for the moment. He could shut everything down until he could barely feel and those nasty flashes almost never came to bother him, and at least when they did he was usually alone. He'd feel worse if his brothers had to see it. They were busy. They had to keep doing things while Slam was stopped.

"Bro?"

Of course they wouldn't leave him alone entirely, not when they still weren't convinced that he was recovering. Honestly, Slam wasn't sure either. If a breakdown was looming on the horizon, he was doing his best to ignore it.

Jab was his most common, and least comfortable, visitor. Every moment with Slam seemed practically painful to him, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from coming either. Slam kept meaning to tell him that it wasn't necessary, but something stayed him every time.

He glanced up and attempted not to look quite as awful as he felt. "Hey."

Jab sat down next to him and very impressively managed not to look at him considering the natural orientation of his eyes. "How's it going?"

"Fine." Jab smelled of car exhaust and brick dust. Something in Slam quavered a little at the smells of the surface. "I was gonna sleep for a bit more."

It was the easiest way to avoid talking. No one had questioned him about it. Sleep was supposed to be healing, and it was obvious that Slam wasn't managing much of it for all he claimed he was trying, but for the first time Jab looked unconvinced. Slam wasn't sure how many days he'd spent down here but maybe it was getting to be too many. There was a limit to how much rest was healthy and how much was not, and perhaps he was nearing that threshold but he wasn't ready to quit.

It was cruel, maybe, but all it took was to stare at Jab until the other's frown faded to uncertainty. It wasn't at all accusing, but Jab seemed to take it that way. "Okay."

He rose to leave, half-relieved and half-guilty. His hand lingered on Slam's arm. "You know, if you need someone to talk to-"

"I know where to find you," Slam said agreeably, though in half an hour this would likely not be true. With nothing better to do than listen to his own breathing and the distant sounds of his brothers, he knew Jab hadn't been around. Where he went, Slam didn't know, although the surface smells said enough, and deep down he knew this wasn't a good thing but he didn't have the inclination to worry about it, or wonder if Ripster knew. That also required thinking.

* * *

Jab was the only one _not_ fooled into surmising that Ripster didn't know where he was going or why. With Rip's hearing and that weird motion sense of his, he wouldn't have been able to miss the absence of one brother, and at the end of the day those were really unnecessary. Rip knew him, and knew that when Clint was in a mood the best place for him to be was elsewhere. The four of them were attuned to each other. One sour temperament would spread like contagion, and the fights tended to grow exponentially after that. Better to leave before something was said that couldn't be unsaid, because a falling out was the last thing they could afford.

He knew it was the right thing to do or Rip wouldn't be letting him do it…but that didn't make him feel like any less of a coward. He should be fixing things with Slam, but he didn't have a clue how, and being anywhere in his brother's presence was a painful reminder. _You went looking for a fight and bit off more than you could chew. This is what you get for being careless and stupid._

It wouldn't affect him so much if it had been the first time he'd done something like this, but Jab's temper was infamous and his list of stupid acts was longer than his arm, and no matter how many times he went through this the lesson never really seemed to stick and it was _frustrating_. He didn't have the sort of discipline to keep himself constantly in check, but at least before this he'd substituted it with friends who had a bit more common sense than he did. Well, he thought wryly, not so much in Jets' case, but Bends-

Another stupid act for his list, and he was sorry to say it had taken him an idiotically long time to wonder why Bends had also been elsewhere, and afterwards he could hit himself. Had, in fact, at least in the process of demolishing a series of support columns in the factory he was taking refuge in. They satisfied his need to hit something, although soon he'd need to either stop or find another building before this one came down on his head.

He called it training. Clint had been on the school wrestling team. He'd taken up boxing, and had picked and won his share of street fights, and since getting this new body which was stronger and faster than any human could hope to be, he'd started to take it all for granted. Overconfidence. That had been his mistake.

The jolting pain that reverberated down his arms was an absolution. Next time, he would be stronger. Next time, he would be faster.

On the lucky days, he would reach the limit of his endurance and be too tried to even think. On the unlucky days, he would stare at his phone and realise that anyone he wanted to call he either couldn't or shouldn't, and the thought of going back to the maintenance station made him shudder even if he didn't want to be alone.

He knew what he should be doing. It had occurred to him days ago, but every time he remembered either daylight was against him or he was too exhausted to feel up to it. Pitiful excuses and he knew it, but that first bite of humble pie was always the hardest. The first step towards any solution always was. He thought of Slam, who hadn't moved figuratively or literally in a week, and viciously forced himself to get up and start walking.

It was a Sunday night. If things hadn't changed, Suspended Reality should still be open late.

* * *

Lena had learned not to take her work home with her, whether it be shrugging off Paradigm's latest cold remark or not thinking about the way the eyes and noses of the rats bleed when they were gassed before dissection, but these days it was getting harder. Secrets that couldn't be told would swirl in her head, incessant and noise, and she wasn't about to admit that she was losing sleep over it. That was normal, she told herself. Stress was normal.

Everything else…not so much.

She always felt both better and worse after visiting the boys. There were fewer secrets with them, but different ones. They didn't need to know how her heart raced every time Paradigm walked into a room, or how she couldn't connect to a single person at the new lab knowing that her presence was essentially there to sabotage them all. The work was a farce, but it was real enough to the rest of them. She couldn't do more than smile politely and pretend to listen when they talked so hopefully about saving the city. Hearts and souls poured into nothing but lies. All she could do was pity them.

The alienation wasn't easy to manage, and although there's been a close, conspiratorial warmth when talking to Ripster, the moment she stepped back out into the street it was like a door had slammed shut. Up here, everyone was oblivious or the enemy. Lena walked quickly down the street, hands folded tightly in her coat, head kept down. She only slowed down when she noticed the alluring reflection of light on the pavement from a store window, and recognised the coffee shop. It wasn't so far from the university. She and Bends had had lunch there dozens of times. Bolton had taken her to talk class schedules over sandwiches. She even remembered having a coffee with John back when he was still a freshman and absolutely thrilled to help her and his father in the lab. Finally doing something important, he'd said.

Impulsively she went inside, deciding that a hot coffee was exactly what she needed to battle the rapidly cooling night. It was dark outside. She'd lost track of time in the underground and taken too long, but she felt a little better with the drink to fortify her. The quiet murmurs of the patrons were a soothing murmur in her ears that she heard not a word of until she was walking out the door.

"Hey, did you hear about that mutant sighting out at the dam?"

Lena turned instinctively as she stepped out into the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of the speaker or hear a little more of their story before the door shut behind her, but caught between two lines of action she entirely forgot to look ahead. She collided with someone, and her coffee fell and splattered on the street. She looked at it in dismay. "Oh…"

"So sorry ma'am," the man said, and then saw her properly. Detective Brock blinked, perhaps trying to recall her face. He probably interviewed dozens of people like her each week.

"I'm sorry detective," she apologised hastily. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

"I think we're both guilty of that then, Miss Mack." Apparently he remembered more than her face. He beamed at her a little sheepishly. "A bit of a professional lapse there. The commissioner would have my badge for sure…and it seems I owe you a coffee."

"Oh no, don't worry-"

"Please," he insisted. "My treat."

She let him hustle her back inside and waited as he ordered the drinks, studying him shrewdly while his attention was on the cashier. Brock was a bit older than her, probably in his thirties, with skin that was a lighter, more caramel shade than her own but with hair just as dark. He stood out rather clearly in her memory, not just because he'd done her interview, but because of his attitude. It was…infectious. She'd seen the way the other cops had caught his upbeat attitude when they'd been combing the labs for clues, hanging on his words and earnestly wanting to please him. Even now the cashier was returning his grin and absently adding a few complimentary cookies to his order. She'd felt that charisma herself, though it had made her decidedly uncomfortable when she'd needed to hold back or deflect his questions. She hadn't been able to bring herself to outright lie in front of him, and maybe that wasn't only because he was an officer of the law.

"You're out late, aren't you Miss Mack?" he asked as he present her with her coffee and one of the cookies. She took it gratefully, not realising how hungry she'd been up until now.

"I…was visiting some friends," she said, faltering slightly over the slight mistruth. Apparently he wasn't any easier to lie to now than he had been then.

"Your apartment isn't far from here, right?"

"How do you-?"

"It was on the report you submitted," he said, winking. "Let me walk you home. The inner-city cops do a pretty good job of keeping this part of the city clean, but you can never be too careful."

"Okay." Lena didn't like to admit that his offer made her feel relieved. She didn't really think Paradigm's creatures had any reason to target her, but she'd been extra careful about locking her windows and doors, and she wouldn't deny a little company in the dark. She looked at him sideways. "I'm surprised you remember that though. I gave you that report…it must be nearly a month ago now."

"One of the quirks of the job," he admitted. "It's the little details that might end up meaning the most. You're a scientist. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

Lena thought of Ripster's file on Paradigm. A hundred tiny details that made up an enigma of a man. She wondered what Brock might make of it if he knew. "I'm not really a scientist. I'm just a lab assistant."

"Which means you're doing all the work while somebody else takes all the credit," he pronounced judiciously. His teeth glinted very whitely in the dark as he offered her a lopsided smile. "I believe it's the unsung heroes who really deserve our gratitude. I'm sure you're doing more than you realise, Miss Mack."

To her surprise, he managed to startle a pleased blush out of her.

* * *

The stack of flattened cartons was not all that easy to manoeuvre towards the recycling bin out back, and for a moment Bends whimsically missed Clint, who was just as comfortable hauling unwieldy boxes as he was lazing behind the counter for hours.

"Hey."

Unaccustomed to summoning people by thought alone, Bends started violently at Jab's voice and managed to send everything in his hands flying.

"Could you not do that?" he asked, a little more sharply than he might have if things between them weren't already tense. "You're scaring years off my life here."

"Sorry." And Jab did look apologetic, not to mention uncharacteristically subdued. He wordlessly started gathering the dropped boxes while Bends looked around nervously. The alley behind Suspended Reality was deserted as it nearly always was, but inside he could still hear the voices of the kids Jasper was entertaining. It was still early. He tried to think if he'd ever gotten a chance to look at Jab in daylight. His appearance was only slightly less fearsome than it was at night.

"What are you doing here?" Bends asked. "You shouldn't be up here."

"I came to see you." Cardboard crumpled like cheap paper for Jab. He threw the giant ball towards the bin. "Since you weren't coming by."

"I've been busy," Bends retorted testily, but managed to stop short of saying any of the more unpleasant things he'd been dwelling on. While Clint could hang onto grudges with the tenacity of a pit bull terrier, Bends didn't feel the need to draw it out. For one, he was slowly coming to the realisation that he wasn't that angry anymore. What was there to say against the truth? He had to admit to his own limitations. The rules of normal physics weren't in play anymore, and humans were no longer at the top of the food chain. That didn't make him useless. It just meant he had to work to his advantages.

It was moderately gratifying to see Jab work up to an apology though. "I'm sorry. I was an idiot."

"You were worried." Gratifying or not, Bends felt obliged to let him off the hook. "You say dumb things when you worry."

"Yeah." Jab smiled wryly. "Will you come down tonight? I think I might have to throttle Streex if I have to put up with him by myself for much longer, and we're having problems with the TV."

"What kind of problems?"

"Well…" Jab looked shifty. "It gave its life for the greater good, but I'd really kinna like it fixed. We're going stir crazy."

Bends raised his eyebrow slowly. "The greater good…?"

Jab changed the subject quickly. "How are things here?"

Now it was Bends' turn to look abashed. "Uh, not bad. I kind of…found someone to take your shifts?"

"It needed to be done," Jab said, taking it better than expected. He seemed ready to ask more on that subject but was distracted, looking over Bends' shoulder. Following his gaze through the open back door, a glimpse of Bends' take-home reading could be seen. "Is that the new Phantasma comic?"

Said in an eerily similar parody of Jasper's enthusiasm from that morning. Bends laughed. "Yeah. Do you want me to bring it? I bet Slam'll want to read it."

Jab looked suddenly downcast. "I'm not so sure. Things aren't…he's not…"

Jab fumbled helplessly for the words. Bends felt a small stab of guilt. "He's not better?"

"A bit maybe. I can't tell." He threw his hands up in frustration before admitting, "I don't know what to do."

Clint had never really liked admitting when he couldn't solve his own problems. It cost him a lot to say it, and Bends had only heard a confession like that one once or twice, and knew it was important enough to drop everything for. "Just give me a few minutes to close up everything here and we'll talk, okay?"

Jab unwound minutely. "Sure."

* * *

Only afterwards did it occur to Streex that the first flaw in his plan to physically _drag _Slam up from the basement was that it was nearly impossibly to drag Slam anywhere he didn't want to go. Somehow, Streex had expected this to have changed from when they'd been human, but irritatingly his younger brother still outclassed him in weight and strength.

Embarrassingly, Bobby had always lost those tussles for the best spot on the living room couch, but at least Coop had never been one to gloat about it like Clint would. Right now, even that would have been better than the sullen resistance Slam was giving, but if Streex had to pull him one inch at a time then he would. Things had gone on long enough, he'd decided. Slam wasn't going to improve by hiding in the basement, and Streex had nothing better to do than be annoyingly persistent.

"Come oooooon," he whined, pitting all his weight against Slam's as he tugged on his brother's arm. The effort won him a few more steps towards the ladder. "You know Bends is finally back. Don't you want to say hi?"

Slam muttered something that didn't exactly sound like a joyful affirmative so Streex ignored it.

"Just a little further….ha!"

Streex managed to grab one of the lower rungs with the tips of his fingers and used the extra leverage to drag his brother closer. He felt ridiculously victorious for just managing that much, although it had taken them a quarter of an hour just to move twenty feet. He beamed at Slam and pointed. "Now up!"

Slam just stared at him without enthusiasm, and the second flaw in Streex's plan became apparent. Having gotten this far, it was not physically possible to force Slam to climb the ladder, and without winding through the tunnels for hours, there wasn't another way up…but after all this work he wasn't about to drop it now. He turned his best persuasive expression on Slam. "You know, I hear Bends brought that new comic you were so interested in. It's just up there, waiting for you to read it."

For a second, maybe only a half second, there was the tiniest flicker of interest before the dark cloud of Slam's mood covered it once more. "And Bends is fixing the TV too. Isn't there a game on tonight?"

Slam's head came up slightly. "Angels versus the Harriers."

The situation couldn't be completely grim if Slam was still keeping track of the football season, even if it was only in the back of his mind. Streex leaned on his shoulder. "Come upstairs and we'll watch it together. It'll be just like old times!"

His brother gave him a long look and then, as though the impulse had to fight its way out, his lips twitched in a small, almost smile. "You always hated football."

'Hate' was perhaps not a strong enough word. Bobby despised the sport. It was all about thick-headed, brick-bodied idiots smashing their skulls together to destroy every brain cell they had left. It didn't have the finesse or speed of hockey, and as far as he could tell the main appeal was the same reason Clint liked watching car sports…for the inevitable moment when someone slipped, crashed and burned. In the case of football it was all about seeing how the guy at the bottom of the dog-pile took the punishment.

"I love football," he corrected blithely. "We'll get a bowl of popcorn and a few sodas and make a night of it. What do you say?"

Slam was weakening. Streex did a mental calculation on the last time he'd seen Slam eat and came up disturbingly blank, but if anything it was an aid to his cause. "Lena bought beef jerky earlier."

Contrary to what he'd said to Lena, Streex hadn't eaten all of it. In fact he'd had exactly one piece and then stashed the rest of it in a drawer where hopefully Jab or Ripster wouldn't sniff it out. Whale sharks weren't a predatory species, but Slam had admitted that meat still had more appeal than most other kinds of foods. Rip had theorised that it was probably the protein content that made their bodies crave it. Either way, Streex had carefully hidden the treat for precisely this moment: the ultimate bribe for a hungry mutant.

It was touch and go for a moment. In spite of the bribes and the pleading, Slam hovered on indecision, and in that moment Streex caught a glimpse of the torment Slam had been hiding for days. He reflexively gripped Slam's arm a little tighter as though he might lose his brother to that dark, ugly emotion.

Slam looked back at him, and the lines that hadn't belonged on his face smoothed a little. "Maybe…just for a little while?"

Tempting as it was to relapse into a mushy pile of sentimental relief, or maybe whoop at the ceiling, Streex managed to restrain himself to a grin so wide it hurt. "At least until the game is over. You know, I heard the Angels might even win this year."

Slam groaned softly at the mention of Fission City's unfortunate home team. "Not a chance."

* * *

Dark rooms and glaring crystal displays were going to be the ruin of her eyesight, but without any other distractions her world shrunk down to the screen in front of her and her mission. A waiting game. A hunt, really, except that her quarry was not of the usual variety. On the vast sea of information that made up Fission City's network, her quarry was a very particular fish that might as well be a ghost for all anyone knew.

Knowledge was the problem. No one else had seen what she had. The truth in layers of misinformation and conspiracies. Those were her specialty, but she hadn't expected to find it in an innocuously and anonymously posted file on an internet message board. She wouldn't normally have taken time to look at it, but at the time she'd thought it was the work of some upstart hacker, and since she believed in justice she'd intended to unlock the secret of the virus and send it back on its creator. Fair was fair, after all.

Instead she'd found something else. The kind of truth that would send any of Fission City's journalists into a coma of joy, but she was not stupid. There were obviously secret backers at work here. Powerful people with lots of money and easy means to make a small problem like herself disappear. She made copies of everything and then deleted any trace of herself from the proximity of that file, although she marked the system it had come from. She wasn't entirely sure who the culprit was although she had her suspicious…and she was sure it wasn't her ghost fish. He wouldn't be so reckless.

Indeed, that made him quite difficult to catch. Every policeman, bounty hunter and likely more than a few members of the criminal element had failed to do so, but they didn't know what bait to use. Having read the contents of that file, she could guess what he was after.

So she waited. It took a long time. More than a week. She barely left her computer, sleeping fitfully at her desk and twitching each time the processor whirred too loudly, but her net was spread wide and eventually her ghost fish came sniffing around. She awoke with a start as the chime finally rang, announcing that someone was attempting to hack into Delta Avenue Electronics; a silently owned subsidiary of Paradigm Enterprises.

She smirked and licked her fingers in anticipation before letting them fly across the keys in a blur of motion. Ghost fish wasn't too bad at it, she noted. It was enough to get him past the flimsy defences of the company's system, but not enough to escape her net.

"Amateur," she murmured, performing a reverse hack and breaking into his own system. It was a remote terminal, as she'd expected. Marking it would do no good. Tracing it would be useless, and she had only a minute before he would notice what she was doing.

She didn't need a minute. All she had to do was dump the files she'd prepared before he could break the connection. It would tell him what she knew. It would tell him how to contact her. Hopefully after the panic of discovery wore off he would actually take her up on the offer.

Ghost fish noticed the download and began backtracking hastily. She couldn't blame him, considering what he was up against. Paranoia would keep him alive long enough for them to help each other.

The screen went blank. He'd pulled the plug, but not before she'd completed her goal. Finally she could get some real sleep. She yawned and stretched, her spine rusted from disuse and making her feel her age.

"Goodnight," she murmured to the fading screen, "Doctor Bolton."

* * *


	9. Chapter 9 Part 1

**Chapter 9 - Storm in, Sing out.**

California.

From north to south, it was…something that certainly wasn't Washington or Oregon. Sure it had trees and farmlands and towns and cities and gas prices that were bleeding him drier than a raisin in the summertime. And it _really_ wasn't anything like Canada, which brought around the key difference between the north and south that all Californians didn't seem to appreciate enough: it was fantastically, gloriously, stupendously _warm_. It might have been early evening and it might have been overcast and threatening to rain, but his windows and car top were down without a damn care.

Because this was southern California and he was making sure to take it all in for as long as possible, just in case it was somehow taken away from him. His land of opportunity, he'd said, before he left Vancouver, the chance to finally make it. Everyone who entered California had that same sort of dream: actor, agent, lawyer, comedian, singer, dancer. To make it _big_ in the world of money and fame.

Melvin Kresnick felt vastly different about his dream.

Everyone thought: to be big, you had to start big. The smarter people understood it better: to be big, the best place to start was on the above-average small. And that's where Melvin was going to start on his road toward Underground Music, on the center stage between competition.

'Battle of the bands' were just like American Idol, but fairer, Melvin reasoned. People got on stage, performed their pieces, and everyone got one opinion. There was no voting off or the only ones ever contracted were the runner-ups and overall winners. One person or group wins the overall prize, and depending how hooked up the event producers are, even a loser could score. Not winning the physical prize didn't mean everyone walked away with nothing.

And it was a curious contest too. Cosplay? For rock bands? How many Alice Cooper and Marilyn Manson look-a-likes would show up? Dressing up wasn't required by either participants or audience, but it was highly encouraged in the spirit of the concert's theme. Of course, if you could afford to dress up, all the better. Melvin had a confirmed audition when all he had enough money for was gas and food round-trip, so playing dress-up was out of the budget. At the same time, he didn't mind. _"Why hide my face when I want the world to know who and what they're getting?"_

Besides, he'd get himself a costume afterwards, when he won. _When_ he won, not if; undermining your skill didn't get your mind in the nock of success. Positive, straight-forward thinking set you at your best when the worst was just about to drop-kick you in the head. Melvin smiled to himself. Everything about this place felt good enough for the right sort of positive energy.

Trees line the left of him. Cows and their fields line the right. The car was cruising sixty-five miles down a thirty mile-per-hour back-road. He could even hear the last songs of the birds before they went to sleep…which meant the music blasting from his speakers wasn't loud enough. He jacked up the volume from uncomfortable to head-splitting.

_"Cutting, cutting, the flesh of my burden _

_Splashing in the east of the bloody pond _

_Can the darkness come around midnight _

_And hide my sins away _

_"Injury my pride patch my jealousy _

_Let me see you for you are _

_Captured kept and held by you _

_I'm in your eyes. So let me out _

_"I wanna see that black side of the moon _

_You can take me there with a single look _

_The poison cast aside for your kisses _

_Leaves me vulnerable to your stings _

_"Injury my pride patch my jealousy _

_Let me see you for you are_

_Captured kept and held by you_

_I'm in your eyes. So let me out"_

The turn-off to the route intersection widened to a two-lane, and Melvin let his car coast slower and slower into the left-turn lane, parking himself beside a black SUV at the red-light, waiting. It wasn't a simple affair, however, as the driver of the other car started blasting the horn as urgently as possible. Melvin blinked, confused as he looked around, until he set eyes on the driver, glaring fitfully at him, with the eyes of two kids staring at as well from the backseat. They were a bit more composed, but the younger one was covering his ears. _Must have an earache or something._

"Turn that garbage down!" the driver screamed over the noise of the pounding drums and blaring bass, once his window was rolled down. "Do you have any courtesy for people, you punk?!"

Melvin was, rightfully, affronted by the demand and the insult. He was, after all, the voice of his generation (or so his father told him sarcastically ever time he got too loud for the house) and was not about to let The Man get him down. So, with a nod, Melvin popped the CD out of the player, bringing the intersect to the peace of cars crossing before them: less aggravating form of noise pollution, by any standards. The man in the SUV didn't even say 'thank you' as he began rolling up his window.

Except once the fresh voice of Aerosmith graced the wind just as vigorously as the last band, Melvin took his left turn in the perfect timing of the newly lit green arrow pointing him in the right direction, leaving the adult and his kids behind. And he let himself laugh some, because even in the 'wonderful' and 'prestigious' States, people were still the same.

"They'll be listening to me soon enough," he said, quiet in the fact of his positive thinking simply being reassured by the pulse emitting from the car speakers. Life was speaking his language, and so was success. This concert was a meal ticket into the high-life, he just knew it...or at least the first definitive step.

* * *

Melvin blinked rapidly as the first vestiges of rain began to sprinkle both his windshield and his eyes and, regretfully but responsibly, pushed the button that replaced the hood overhead. _Mom would kill me if the car flooded._ And the thought amused him, imagining his poor beat-up rustbucket up to its gills with water. Like a redneck kiddy pool. 

But as the idea of making the car just that, once he'd made himself a higher standard of living, the sudden squealing of tires and the world freaking out before his eyes put everything on hold. The crunch of metal grating into metal, the faint trace of rancid smoke, his body jarring and jousting inside the seatbelt, and his heart seizing painfully preceded the split second finale of the most deafening explosion he'd ever heard up close to the source.

Belatedly, Melvin began to breathe again once the world, still very wrong in his view, at least wasn't spinning in front of him. Lifting his head from the upper cusp of the steering wheel, it ached more and more as it returned to its preferred vertical positioning. His fingers were cramped, curled like iron rods around the leather of the wheel, not willing to let go while his forearms shook and shuddered. He stared out the spider-webbed window; the cracked trunk of a tree stared balefully back. Splinters and bark sprang forward, a decent dent curled underneath his bumper. And as the sprinkle of rain grew to a mature helping of it, his view straight forward was obstructed by the new wall of water lazily slipping and sliding into and over the window damage.

The car wasn't burning, but also wouldn't start. A moron could tell you it had finally reached that great junkyard in the sky after being on Earth for years well beyond its time. It was raining. He was shaken and stirred from the shock. And his first coherent thought was, _Mom is going to kill me._

It might have been seen as silly, a grown man thinking back to his mother when there were obvious concerns presented right before him. However, it made sense to him and, as he released a great gust of air from his chest, Melvin managed to unclamp a hand to grab at the door handle. The door opened with a characteristic screech-of-pressure and Melvin climbed out, trying on to let the rattle of his knees bring him down, figuratively or literally.

The rain was the right sort of cool to match the warm air, but getting wet was still unpleasant. Melvin looked forlornly at the front of the car, finally thinking rationally: _How am I supposed to get anywhere now?_

He scrabbled for the cell phone in his pocket, and scowled when it reported there was no service. "What else can go wrong?" he muttered sourly, as he stamped around for service, without receiving so much as the tiniest bar. What did you expect for a place that screamed Middle of Nowhere? But Karma wasn't done with him, as a sinister and ominous groan of Treedom caught his attention, just in time to watch a previous free-dangling tree limb—a _dead_ tree limb, he noted, finally realizing what poor sort of plantlife he'd rammed into—crash gracelessly onto the hood of his car, tearing straight through the leather of it, and into the driver's _and_ passenger's seat. Which led to a more drastic crunch, as a secondary branch planted itself straight into the heart of his beloved, and very well used acoustic guitar that had been sitting beside him the entire ride.

Melvin stared, agape, aghast, and almost bubbled into hysterics. Because that could have been _him_ that got impaled.

He shivered, convinced himself it was the rain, and started gathering his things. A sign on the side of the road said a privately owned hotel was just up ahead, and that seemed like the best place to start this misadventure. Hopefully he'd get service before then.

* * *

It was a hour and a half before he reached that hotel, with still no help from his mobile carrier in getting him help. In that hour and a half, the rain has developed into an all-out thunderstorm, he was muddy from the knees down after the trek following the dirt off-path, and vowed never to criticize techies when they had to haul amplifiers around by hand with, "Come on, put your back into it!" 

The lights were still on, he made out, as the darkness revealed some semblance of a farmhouse, renovated to be the hotel, he imagined. Except it was creepy. Like a place Dracula or ghosts would camp out for the summer holidays. But Melvin was willing to be brave if it meant getting himself out of the wet, because he was sure everything he owned was now soaked too, and a chance to get it dry was far more tempting.

The tracks in the mud driveway leading to the car parked right beside the farmhouse not only said the place was still open for business, it had either a recently active customer or staff. It reassured him. Just a little; the house was still pretty creepy, and it only got worse hearing the creaking of the porch stairs under weight.

Melvin opened the door with a cautious peer inside. What were the rules for places like this? Reservation only? Knock and wait for a bellboy? Go right in? "Ha-llo?" he crooned uneasily. "Anyone home?"

When no one answered back, Melvin wanted very much to just close the door, camp out on the porch, and pray he'd be unseen until dawn. That would have been his plan too, until he spotted an antique rotary telephone on what looked like the front desk, inside the foyer. That was it. He walked inside, dragged his stuff in, and closed the door firmly behind him.

The lights flickered, out of sync with the lightning flashing on the other side of the windows. Melvin grit his teeth and was just about to call out again when the sound of heavy footsteps climbing a staircase somewhere ahead of him put the pressure of 'now or never' upon him. Melvin Kresnick was not a man who whimpered in the face of danger, but until the likely basement door swung out from below the stairs to the second floor, he was greatly considering it.

The man who emerged had a flashlight in hand, turned off, and jumped a mile when he realized Melvin was standing on the welcome mat, a stranger just there. Melvin belated wondered if the old man carried some form of weapon on him. Some did, in his neighborhood, especially the older of the middle-age range, in their forties and fifties; this guy fit that bill. "Good evening, young man," he managed to say, under an accent and the candid fidgeting of trying to compose himself. Trying to place accents was never Melvin's specialty. Everything from Europe sounded German to him, except German itself. That sounded Russian. "Can I help you?"

"Uh..." Melvin anxiously tried to swipe his hair back. "Yeah, um, my car sorta crashed up the road and I was wondering if I could use your phone."

"Out-of-towner?" Melvin said nothing as the old man moved behind the desk. Americans were funny when it came to Canada. "I'm afraid the power's out, and so are the landlines."

"Uh..." He made a gesture to the wall lamps. They were still on, and still flickering.

The man shook his head. "There's a generator in the basement for times like these. People are running into telephone poles all the time out here." Melvin had the distinct discretion to blush, but at least he could freely admit the power outage was not his fault. "You can use the phone in the morning; it'll be up by then."

He grimaced. He really didn't want to wait that long. But, when in Rome... "Got any rooms open?"

The old man looked him over, trying to dissect him, Melvin bet, before he turned around and took a key with a tag out of a cubbyhole. "My name is Gerald Cunningworth," he said, before holding out the ring for Melvin to snatch. "You're room is on the second floor, number twenty-three, on the left. Aht." The key was withheld as Mr. Cunningworth gave him a sharp look. "We'll talk about payment tomorrow."

Now that is luck, Melvin thought as the key was finally relinquished to him, and he fought a smile. He gathered his bag and ruined guitar case and made it to the first step before Mr. Cunningworth left him with one last thing: "And don't wander up to the third floor. The man up there has left instructions that he does not want to be disturbed."

Melvin made a mock salute and looked up the stairwell. A second later, he changed his mind and turned to ask about food. But he stopped after one short noise.

Mr. Cunningworth was _gone_.

Melvin gaped, eyes comically wide, and just decided it wasn't worth the fear factor. "Creepy," he crooned, and hurried up the stair as fast as he could haul.

* * *

The room was sparsely kept to date, but it was marginally clean, which is all Melvin needed. The bathroom was, however, lacking something—water pressure; it made him wary to use anything beyond the sink. "Be lucky for the small things," his mother often told him. "It's the small things are going to kill me in this house," he muttered, shaking himself out of his wet clothes and trading them for the last clean set he had, before flopping backwards on the bed in just pants. It was time to hit the launders after tomorrow. 

His regret to not ask Mr. Cunningworth about food was eating at him, but he didn't want to step foot down there without it being daylight...so he knew where he was running if the man decided that he was food instead. "Old fogy vampire," he snickered. The owner had been refined, and when one is refined, European, and could disappear like magic, they just had to be vampires. Obviously this one was no Dracula-- Mr. Cunningworth was decidingly too short, dark, old, and stocky to be a proper Dracula-- but he entertained the idea with much enthusiasm. The guy probably ducked behind the desk anyway.

It still didn't solve his rumbling stomach; it was bordering in painful, now that he was paying attention to it. Going downstairs was out of the question...but what Mr. Cunningworth last said, about the man upstairs, was food for thought, and maybe food for consumption. "Doesn't want to be disturbed," he drawled, very much like Dracula, and figured he wouldn't mind a few seconds of his time. Jumping off the bed with a wide grin in place, he dashed for the door and started roaming the floor.

The stairs to the third floor were at the end of the corridor, around a turn. It was suddenly obvious why the man had said to not wander up here: there was only one door at the top of the landing. He grimaced, and realized any hope of feigning unable-to-comprehend-directions jumped right out the third story window. But Melvin knocked anyway. Honor for his hunger demanded satisfaction.

No answer. Melvin tched, and momentarily fought the urge to go back down in defeat, putting his hand on the knob as a steady. The stairs were steep, after all.

He didn't expect it to turn and unlatch.

Melvin suddenly found himself at an impasse, staring into the crack of the now open door: do the right thing and just go to bed, or do the selfish thing, and see if this guy had a spare snack-pack lying about.

The door opened wider and Melvin stuck his head inside, much like he had earlier. "Anyone here?" When nothing came, he asked one more time, louder. A lack of a response prompted him to remember there was only one car outside, which seemed like a good sign that the renter was out. An open opportunity if he ever saw one. Taking a good look around, Melvin realized why the renter had left such instructions.

"S'like a mad lab," he uttered in hushed awe. One didn't see genuine chemistry sets in bulk every day, and being used so heavily to boot. Melvin had to stop and wonder if this was one very elaborate methamphetamine laboratory. It was also a miracle the farmhouse hadn't burned down yet; Bunsen burners and heating plates were on, cooking and boiling long feeds of glass tubes from round-bottom flasks into catches and cups.

But once he spotted the stray cup of popcorn over on a table by the window, Melvin felt everything else melt away and he hurried over to its side, ready to embrace it. His heart hammered, mental alarms blazing, but he couldn't stop himself from taking a single, lone piece from the very top, and sending it down the hatch.

"A little stale and no butter, but I'm not about to complain." And he wasn't, because beside it was a cup of water, and beside that, a saltshaker. It was like heaven was telling him something, and he wasn't about to waste the chance. If the renter noticed it gone, Melvin would make sure there'd be no evidence to incriminate him. After all, it's popcorn. Snag the water cup too…And salt for flavor. He dashed the shaker over the cup quickly. He wanted out, and he was taking the whole with him.

Theft? Beggars weren't choosers, as the saying went. It was popcorn. Who was going to miss it?

* * *

In the night, Melvin dreamed. 

His skin burned and itched, like fire ants were attacked him from head to toe. He watched his limbs turn fiery pink and stretched, like soft rubber. It pulled and twisted every which way, and he couldn't scream.

His mouth turned inside out, flipping over itself, teeth now facing away and a tongue torn of its restrictive ligaments dangled freely over what used to be his upper jaw. His face was swallowed by the backwards process, and he couldn't scream.

His skull caved in, and then exploded in slow motion. Each piece of bone and flesh slowing, slowing, until it was all suspended just outside the radius of where it had been just before, and he couldn't scream.

Something pressed against his back, like a foot to his shoulders, forcing him into a floor he couldn't see. Like needles shoving itself out of his spine and blooming like quills where the invisible foot was, and he couldn't scream.

The wide expanse of black and purple noise encompassed him, drowned him, supported him, and kept him away from himself. He felt distant, an arm's length away, but it never stopped feeling so personal. No noise, save a guttural rumbling that reverberated throughout his perverse body. And he couldn't scream.

* * *

Lately, the choir of waking up was usually accompanied by the aches and cramps of sleeping in the car. His travel money was reserved for gas and grub, not a poster bed with real walls. Catch six hours of sleep, always making sure there was some form of schedule to his road trip to Fission City. This is why his alarm was going off at five in the bloody morning. No bars didn't mean it still didn't function properly, and Melvin, weary-eyed and bedraggled at having his Place of Sleep transitioned again, groped almost blindly to the bedside table. But there weren't any aches, he realized, as he silenced the intrusive noise with a button press. Muggy, but nothing was telling himself to shove off. 

"Should've set it for eight," he mumbled into the pillow, but then thought against it for obvious reasons. He didn't have a car. Getting up now got him a head start on figuring out what he was going to do. He was also right outside the city, which meant he could still catch the tryout appointment even if he had to grab a taxi. But dawn was already breaking and only five minutes later, Melvin felt restless and figured his current timetable for getting up wouldn't be so easily deterred. It didn't hurt that his body responded well to the idea of ditching the pillows for starting the day, and managed to sit on the edge of the mattress with ease.

It felt pretty good, for once. _Damn_ good in fact. Aside from the heavy head and blurry vision, one good stretch and a yawn just put everything into place for the start of the morning. It would have been a good one too, if obliviousness was infinite.

Because Melvin caught the reflection in the vanity mirror. And screamed in absolute terror.

Except there was no scream as he flailed and twisted, his mind hammering on the fright-fest of last night. Vanishing clerks, mad scientist labs, and now blue monsters who roared over his own distinguishable voice, _in his room_. But as he fell to the floor with his heart beating crazily, he saw nothing. Not a shred of blue.

No, that was a lie. There was blue. On the underlining blur of his vision that was now hastily clearing up was a run of pale, sky blue that tapered to a fine point and Melvin gagged in panic, reaching up to swat at whatever has latched onto him. The hit landed solidly, and it _hurt_, like hitting his own face—

His hand.

"What the fu..." His breathing hitched. Fingers waggled at his specific, finger-waggling command. But this wasn't his hand. It was huge, it had no fingernails, it was sky blue—

He looked down-- the blue point follow like a nose-- and his feet were blue, his legs, his arms, his—He snapped his waistband and panicked. Well, that was snow white. Desperate, Melvin scurried over to the vanity and peered almost helplessly over the edge into the mirror.

His previously fuzzy blue monster was now a very sharp, very defined, very stricken monster of vaguely familiar shape he'd never seen face to face. And it had hair, he noted with a bubble of inner hysteria.

Melvin felt his throat close up as the monster mimicked his every movement. A mantra of profanities accompanied every second of this revelation, desperate to deny the science-fictional truth that was presented before him: Melvin wasn't human.

He screamed again, but like before, it was guttural, deep, and shaking. He wasn't sure what would have happened had he continued, but through the roar, was a sharp shriek of noise just as inhuman as his own, and it closed him off, so a voice could follow. "Be quiet, you fool!"

Melvin choked. Now he was hearing things and instinctively looked around the room. But there was no one there. Except there was, somewhere, because it then said, in a more soothing, matter-of-fact way, "You'll wake the owner with all that noise."

He looked around in the general direction it came from, because his ears were better than they should have been. "The hell is going on?!"

"Just breathe and close your eyes for a minute," admonished the voice. "Relax. It shouldn't take long."

Melvin was two seconds away from hyperventilating and the ghost was asking him to _relax_? But if Mom taught him anything, it was that Yoga classes were good for your health, and it was all about the breathing. So he breathed, but didn't close his eyes. He was too aware to.

But whatever was supposed to happen was. It was like pulling the plug in a drain, as the water swirled down the pipes and out of the bathtub, out of life. The anxiety was leaving steadily, as was the stress, the fear, and the tension. …And Melvin was smart enough to know that was totally not natural. And now the voice was murmuring, "...must've tampered with the pacifying agent...beat out the endorphin rush..."

He flopped backwards, instinctively not flat on his back but twisted to the side, and stared at the miserable ceiling. "Okay floating voice, I've got questions; you know most of them. We'll fill in the blanks as we go. _Start talking_."

"You came into my room last night and stole my popcorn and water solution."

Melvin shouldn't have laughed. He shouldn't have, but he did. Of course it had been wrong, morally, legally, and now sanitarily, but that sounded more of a petulant whine than a form of high-theft accusation. It was funny. He sobered up pretty quick, though, when the voice continued. "That's why you're currently in the body of a shark. Your common sense must be proud of you."

"It looked ordinary!" he defended.

"It was accompanied by flasks and beakers," it retorted. "What part of that looked ordinary?"

The floating voice had a very good point. Good points are generally conquered by primal instinct. Hunting and gathering, the need to feed. He'd been hungry, for Lord's sake! Sharks needed to eat too—Wait, that wasn't right. "Shark? Did you say I'm a shark?"

There was a rustle of cloth over cloth, and Melvin's attention snapped to it. A large, heaping bundle of dirty laundry by the looks of it was in the corner of the room-- how had he missed it?-- and now _moving_. Senses Melvin knew he never had before focused entirely on that motion, keen and alert on what it might translate to: predator or prey?

"It was in the first bite you took. Each piece was coated with a specific DNA altering catalyst and it's a first come-first serve process. Whichever piece activates first cancels out all other attempts to alter the human body." There was a pregnant pause, followed sardonically by, "Be happy you stole the salt shaker. You would have torn this place to splinters in blind rage had you not."

It didn't trouble him that this was too wild to believe. He didn't believe it. However, his mind absorbed it calmly, rationally, and without another freak-out episode or heavy denial. That also wasn't normal, this form of acceptance. "I'm a shark."

"With hair." The pile shifted again. "What's your name?"

"Melvin Kresnick." An easy thing to volunteer. "You got one?" He was met with silence and stillness. "Okay Lumpy, we'll play it your way. You got a cure?"

"You ingested a half-complete version." The pile started to carry itself forward, toward him. It was comical. "You were at the wrong place, at the wrong time, and I can't turn you back."

"Ever?"

"Until the formula can be cracked."

"This happen often around here, this transforming business?"

"With alarming increase."

There was great temptation to respond with incredulous sarcasm, but then Melvin had spent the last two weeks crossing the empty countryside with only his CD player for company. For all he knew Godzilla had flattened New York while he was cheerfully oblivious to the greater goings-on of the world.

And then he realized with sudden, ridiculous certainty that this was definitely going to be an unfathomable setback to his hopeful musical career.

"What time is it?" he asked, lunging desperately to his feet. If he'd been thinking a little clearer he might have realized that it wasn't a fantastic idea to move so quickly in a body that wasn't at all familiar, but after staggering for a moment some indeterminable sense of balance kicked in and he felt…fine. Really fine, actually, just as he'd noticed when he'd first woken up. Joints loose and fluid, no stiffness or aches or pain like he vaguely remembered having invaded his dreams. In fact it felt more natural than being human, which was really quite odd.

"Early enough that the owner probably hasn't woken up despite all the noise you've been making," Lumpy said with an edge that hovered between exhaustion and annoyance. "Grab your things. Since we can't let him see you like this you'll have to come to my room. He'll have to assume you skipped out on the bill."

That didn't sit right with Melvin, but then his scathing inner conscience reminded him that one more petty criminal act wasn't likely to get him in as much trouble as stealing the popcorn had. He threw his mud-encrusted-but-thankfully-no-longer-wet clothing back into his duffel bag and hefted it…and paused. Looked in it just to be sure that he wasn't missing anything but the bag was still overstuffed with all his worldly possessions even though it was as light as a feather when it shouldn't have been. He studied it in confusion as Lumpy lead the way back to the third floor.

It was a much more time-consuming task than it should have been, and he felt a bit awkward pretending not to notice how the other laboriously struggled to climb the stairs. He found himself averting his eyes to one of the worn looking paintings on the staircase wall, even though he really wanted to get a look at the limbs that occasionally peeked out from between the rags. He'd glimpsed enough to know they weren't quite human – not anymore, at least – but they weren't much like his own either.

At the top, however, he couldn't ignore how Lumpy sagged into the wall with obvious relief. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Lock the door after you," Lumpy rasped by way of response, shuffling over towards the table of beakers and tubes that Melvin gave a wide berth to. After a moment it added more subduedly, "I was up all night keeping an eye on you, making sure your mutation didn't go wrong. I need to sleep."

"What about me?" he asked, not meaning to sound quite as hopeless as he did. He cleared his throat. "I still have questions." A thousand of them, pricking at him like needles, but the other shook his head.

"They'll have to wait." He gestured grandly to one wall, which Melvin suddenly realized was covered with newspaper clippings, pinned up with the precision of a butterfly collection with corners curling like wings. "These should be able to answer some of them. Don't answer the door. The owner knows better than to disturb me, but just in case…and don't leave the room, whatever you do. It wouldn't be safe for either of us, and even with the hair your profile's a little too distinctive."

He must have looked confused. Lumpy sighed and tapped one of the clippings. "Read. You'll understand." And without further explanation the rag pile hobbled away to a side door and closed it firmly, shutting out any chance of conversation or company.

Not that Melvin needed company. He was only stuck alone in a room full of crazy looking equipment that did god knows what. Hell, if the popcorn turned people into sharks, maybe sitting on the chair made you burst into flames. From now on he wasn't going to touch a damn thing. The papers seemed safe enough though, and dubiously he wandered over to have a look.

The pictures drew his eye first. The tiny print promised headaches and he felt too restless for reading, but after he started to make sense of the grainy photographs the articles started to capture his attention more fully. _Sharks_. He only had that first, terrifying glimpse of himself in the mirror for reference, but the resemblance was there. The name 'Bolton' was highlighted in pink half a dozen times in each article, as was the name 'Paradigm'. A lot of the stories were reiteration, but after half an hour he'd managed to piece together most of the story.

Melvin felt justified in resenting these 'Street Sharks' a little. He didn't feel like going out and terrorizing harmless citizens any more than he had yesterday. He just wanted to get to his music audition, but fat chance of that when shark-shaped mutants had acquired such a bad name. It was impossible now…or was it?

He wished he had his mirror back, and not just for vanity purposes. The articles on the wall were recent and taken from multiple sources, but between all of them there wasn't once decent, up-close picture of these shark mutants. Just distant, blurry smudges. Nobody probably knew what one looked like up close, and he could attribute his new look to some really fancy costuming. He examined one of his arms, and decided that it still looked human enough that surely most people would be fooled.

Just as he was starting to berate himself for seriously entertain the idea, he heard a creaking of floorboards so near it made him jump. He'd been distantly aware that the old hotel seemed far nosier than it had yesterday, but some unconscious reflex to save his senses from overloading had kept most of it filtered out of his actual awareness. This new noise, however, was much more deliberate, and dormant instincts were starting to scream at him.

_Danger, Will Robinson_, he though grimly, holding his breath and waiting as more squeaking announced someone climbing the stairs. There was a musty smell – dust, old cologne, some kind of chemical starch and a faint whiff of garlic – and in a flash of memory he was reminded of Mr. Cunningworth. Humans were only subliminally aware of those scents but sharks were driven by them.

He supposed the garlic smell meant the old man wasn't a vampire after all. In a way he was a little disappointed.

Mr. Cunningworth paused at the door, shifting in a way Melvin thought was indecisive hovering, and he felt himself tense like a spring of coiled motion, but the knock he was expecting never came. Instead - muttering in that weird accent that Melvin still couldn't recognize about ungrateful hooligans from out of state - he retreated back the way he'd come. Now that he was paying attention, Melvin could hear him descend all the way to the ground floor, go around what he assumed what the front desk, and turn on the radio. Even through the static and crackly he could hear the music drifting up through the floorboards and back came his sense of karmic rightness.

Glancing around, his eyes fell on set of keys next to the door that were just begging to be taken. That felt right too. After all, he wasn't going to steal Lumpy's car. Just borrow it for a few hours. Long enough to make this audition and see if he could pull his little charade off. If not, well, then he had a getaway vehicle, newfound strength and a very impressive nose to get himself out of trouble. Oddly enough, he didn't actually think he'd need it.

He started digging through his bag, looking for the clothes he'd intended to wear for his performance, rapidly cobbling together a scheme to get himself into the city with a minimum of fuss. All he'd have to do is wait for a moment to sneak out; shouldn't be too hard since he could tell exactly where Mr. Cunningworth was, and Lumpy's room radiated silence. He'd lost his guitar in the crash and would have to hope someone would loan him one, and he had to remember to keep his head down while driving and hope there were no police…

Hundreds of possibilities for things to go completely up the creek, but Melvin hadn't come all this way for nothing. Setbacks and sharkness aside, he had a dream to be realized.

* * *

"Here kitty, kitty." 

Kitty, for that was in fact her stage name, swayed hypnotically to the lyrics she was murmuring into the microphone like it was the ear of a lover. Streex leaned out over the railing of the scaffold, shamelessly trying to get a look down her cleavage from above until a hand on his fin tugged him back.

"Knock it off, Romeo," Jab groaned. "Are you going to do that for every girl who comes on stage."

Streex leered. "Only the pretty ones."

"Like you can tell from here," Jab said, to which Streex could unhappily agree. Their vantage point did give them a good view of the hall, but sadly it was not the best angle from which to admire the performers. Going down was out of the question though. Ripster had been very firm about this little outing. Frankly, it was amazing he'd run out of instructions and warnings to impress on them before the audition period was over.

Just as amazing was seeing Jab playing the role of Responsible Older Brother and actually enforcing all those rules. Not exactly a positive turn of events, in Streex's opinion, but he didn't think it would last. 'Responsible' didn't suit Jab any more than 'subdued' suited Slam, but both of them were finally starting to ease out of those dark places.

"I mean, she's not even that good," Jab complained, gesturing down at the stage.

Streex sighed ruefully. That was the unforeseen drawback of his master plan. He'd been so sure that the music concert would be a good idea. Bends was already involved as both sponsor and soundman; he'd managed to scope out the hall and find places they could hide in advance. They could stay out of sight and still enjoy the music, and even if anyone happened to spot them, all of the performers were in costume anyway. A few of them were even sporting shark-like ones, their inspiration all too obvious, and between all that, a real mutant would be overlooked. Yep, perfect. Except for one thing.

Everyone sucked.

Well, maybe in all fairness they didn't…not to a normal person at least, but he and Jab didn't qualify anymore. Streex wasn't exactly sure why; maybe the shark's hearing range was a little different from a human's, or maybe it was just because he was a little too aware of the timing of the instruments. Everything sounded a little off to him. Playing a beat too fast or slow and suddenly the whole song was out of sync. Mere fractions of a second made the difference to a mutant that he would never had been aware of before.

He hated to admit that it was grating, because he really didn't want to leave yet, but Jab was obviously getting bored. Any minute he was going to declare this expedition over and Streex would have to trot home like a good boy. It was time for drastic measures.

He leaned out casually over the railing again. "Hey, isn't that Jets down there?"

Predictably, Jab was at his side in a second. "Where?"

"Talking to that guy in the costume," he said vaguely, backing away slowly and subtly. "Between the rows."

Which could have meant any of a dozen people. It was a dirty, dirty trick, preying on the fact that he knew his brother was aching for any news of his other best friend. Still, Streex refused to feel too guilty, and the distraction would give him ample time to go down and have a few words with Kitty. Maybe he could ask for her autograph and, with any luck, her phone number. Proper dating may have been out of the question but surely phone calls were harmless.

She was standing with one of her band mates, a handsome brunette with painted tiger stripes almost as fetching as his own and her guitar still hanging around her middle. They were laughing, celebrating already which meant Ripley had already told them they'd made the cut. He carefully attuned his smile to not show too many teeth – an art he'd been practicing in the mirror – and swaggered confidently towards them.

"You girls," he announced grandly, "were absolutely amazing out there."

"Thank-you," the brunette said, blinking rapidly at him. She'd probably been blinded by the brightness of the stage lights, so even if she noticed something a little off she'd likely dismiss it as tricks of the spots in her eyes. Unexpected bonus.

"That's a really good costume you're wearing," Kitty blurted. Her face was prettily flushed from the effort of her performance, and Streex internally congratulated himself again on having excellent taste.

"So's yours," he told her earnestly. He certainly admired the deep, v-neck cut. "Where'd you get it?"

"I made it myself," Kitty admitted, adjusting the ears on her headband self-consciously.

"Really?" He had to restrain himself from grinning too wide, but the brightness in his gaze made up for it. "Just how many talents do you have?"

She beamed at him, and he knew that speculative look well enough to know that phone number was all but his, but just as he opened his mouth to ask he was rudely interrupted by a voice that instantly raised his hackles.

"Excuse me, ladies," the interloper purred with a sweetness that was so obviously deceptive it made Streex sneer. "I was wondering if you wouldn't mind doing a kindness for a fellow musician."

Streex turned to glower, but his expression quickly turned into a speechless stare because that was one hell of a costume.

Except it wasn't.

Later on he wouldn't be able to put his finger on exactly how he knew. Instinct, he supposed, because for a fraction of a moment he locked eyes with the stranger and there was that rare _shift_ of the dormant shark's mindset that only woke up and took notice of serious threats…but the moment passed and the stranger shook his head and dismissed Streex in favor of the brunette.

"You see, I lost my guitar in an accident on my way here, and I just happened to notice this extremely fine looking instrument you have." He stroked the neck of her guitar, his hand nearly touching her own, and she smirked favorably at him. "I was hoping you would do me the honor of letting me borrow her for my audition. I'll have her right back to you, safe and sound."

"Sure," the brunette said easily, pulling the strap over her head and offering it to him. "Watch out for the A-string. It's a little temperamental."

He winked at her. "I'll be sure to treat it gently."

The girls giggled, and Streex snapped out of his stupor enough to be vaguely annoyed again, but he held his tongue as the other shark paraded out onto the stage. He strained to hear Ripley calling out the name of the act, but a hand clamping fiercely down on his arm became the more immediate focus of his attention.

"You," Jab hissed, "are so in for it when we get out of here."

"Hold on a sec," Streex growled back, trying to pry his brother off with little success. "Did you see that? That guy who just went on stage was a mutant."

"Yeah right," Jab muttered, dragging Streex back towards the side door they'd pre-planned to be their exit. Streex had a feeling the disbelief was his just reward for his earlier indiscretion and didn't like it one bit.

"I'm serious. Come on, just take a look at the guy would you?"

The stage microphone whined in sudden protest as its volume was adjusted, and suddenly the stranger's booming voice echoed in the whole of the concert hall. "I'd like to dedicate this first song to the lovely lady in the wings who has single-handedly saved my performance." There was a jangling riff of guitar chords that almost sounded like an accidental tripping of fingers until the melody emerged like the phoenix from the ashes.

The sound made the two brothers pause – not out of any deference to the act but because it was obvious almost immediately that this performance had what the others had lacked. That intrinsic, perfect sense of pitch and timing. So perfect it was actually enough to make Streex light headed, and for a moment his annoyances seemed to fade into the background. It wasn't nearly as important as _listening_ and _damn_, that was some good music.

_"It's a quiet night in that town somewhere _

_Saw her in the bar that lonely night _

_Said hey darling come on back away _

_Let me show how to cry it all all-right _

_"Tantric passion lost our wheels of time _

_Just a touch no my friend I know _

_Just in case the dawn breaks too fast _

_One more time before I have to go"_

He had a whole lot less trouble tugging Jab back to the stage. The hammerhead seemed to have lost most of his resistance as well. The edge of the curtain afforded them a good view of the shark who was crooning along to his instrument. The rest of the hall which seemed to have gone quite silent by comparison. Most people looked hypnotized. Almost everyone has stopped what they were doing to listen, even though fellow musicians should have been harder to impress than the average Joe. The only face he saw that wasn't slack with rapture was Bends, who looked more startled than anything. Streex nudged his brother. "Look at Bends. He knows."

_"Come morning I will close my eyes to you _

_Will never leave my sweet memory _

_Gone before you wake up all alone _

_But orange light aglow for all to see _

_"Quiet little Tinkerbell, damn yourself to me _

_Light of dust, my mind undone, your hate is my great reverie"_

Jab made an absent noise of acknowledgement as he focused on the shark, still trying to decipher what his senses were telling him. Streex was more curious as to whether that hair was some kind of wig, or if it was actually real. The Mohawk style was a little out of date, but much to his consternation the look worked. At least, he thought sourly, the girls seemed to think so, with the way most of them were staring as the last few noted died away and the Shark's rich voice faded to silence.

The applause was as immediate and deafening as a gunshot, and Streex actually jumped. Obviously the shark's intense performance had gone down well with the rest of the audience. People started to surge forward like moths to the flame, bursting with questions and congratulations. _That was amazing! Where did you learn to play like that? Where did you get your costume?_

There was no way to even get close, let alone find a moment to ask his own burning questions that couldn't afford to be overheard. With more people flocking to the stage, Jab was starting to shift nervously.

"We have to go," he murmured in Streex's ear.

"But that guy-!"

"I know, but what if people start noticing how similar our 'costumes' are?" One or two were already starting to give them appraising looks that couldn't be afforded. Streex growled quietly but allowed Jab to start pulling him back towards the exit.

* * *

"You should have seen him," Streex raged, flailing expressively at the air. "Got right up on that stage in front of everyone and _sang_ like you wouldn't believe it. I have to hand it to him, the guy must have the biggest set of-" 

"Streex," Ripster interrupted tiredly, having been listening to the rambling diatribe for the last ten minutes. "Enough."

Streex closed his mouth and crossed his arms sulkily.

Jab was trying a fairing attempt to hide a smirk, and even Slam had seemed rather entertained by Streex's very dramatic retelling of the whole event. Ripster would have been more so if the whole thing didn't promise a whole host of unwanted complications in their near future, even if the story was a bit bizarre.

A shark mutant who sang. It had to be the strangest thing he'd heard all week.

"No chance of it just being some guy in a costume?" he asked without any real hope. His gaze fell on Bends, but the blond just shrugged helplessly.

"Sorry, man. I didn't even see him up close but I'm pretty sure he was the real deal." Bends adjusted his shades, looking thoughtful. "You should have seen the teeth. Definitely not fakes."

"And the crowd loved him," Streex reiterated grumpily. "Why can't we get that kind of press?"

"Because we're wanted criminals," Ripster pointed out dryly. "And he's currently an unknown."

"Oh I bet Paradigm knows exactly who he is," Jab muttered darkly, and there was a short pause as they all considered that.

"I don't think singing at rock concerts is really Paradigm's style," Streex said.

"It doesn't make much sense," Slam agreed.

Jab rounded on them both. "Well where else would he have come from?"

"Even if Paradigm made him," Ripster said, "that doesn't mean they're still working together, does it?"

There was an even longer pause, because the thought that the situation might somehow swing in their favour hadn't even crossed anyone's mind.

"So he might be on our side?" Slam asked.

"Hey, if he's anything like us, maybe he gave Paradigm the flick too." Streex suddenly seemed a lot warmer on the subject. Then he frowned. "Although the concert isn't exactly the best way to be keeping low profile."

"Maybe he's an idiot," Jab suggested with a pointed look at Streex. "You two did seem to have a lot in common."

Slam managed to grab Streex's raised arm on reflex and hastily interceded with, "Maybe he just liked music too much to give it up."

"We really need to talk to him," Ripster added. "Do you know where he went after the audition?"

Jab shook his head in consternation while Streex gave him a haughty look, but Bends cleared his throat. "All the concert performers had to give their contact details and I kinda managed to get you a copy." He proffered a piece of paper with a sheepish grin. "Mind you, I'm not sure if this is very reliable, but…"

Streex grabbed it, read it, and stared. "The Creepy Hotel, Route four-seven-seven. Seriously?"

"It's all I got," Bends said apologetically.

"Nothing to lose by trying it," Ripster said. "We'll start looking tomorrow. In the meantime, I'll see what kind of news has leaked out about this guy."

"Why bother?" Jab asked.

Ripster looked grim. "Because if Paradigm wasn't looking for him already he will be now."

* * *

It felt like the music hadn't really left him, and the adoration of the crowd was still clinging to his skin as their applause rung in his ears. Melvin wore his success like a cloak, and was practically walking on air as he made his way back up to the third floor of the old hotel, spinning the keys on his finger and humming with overwhelming cheerfulness. 

They loved him. Even in his wildest dreams he couldn't have imagined it going any better than it had. _He_ had been great. That was no exaggeration. Who'd have thought sharks would have rhythm, and even if his voice wasn't quite as smooth as it had once been it was more than made up for by the deep, almost feral resonance for the low notes. Some of the girls had definitely been swooning. The grin that had been plastered to his face ever since he'd stepped onto that stage widened a fraction.

Of course he needed someone to share it all with, and since his budget probably wouldn't stretch to a long distance phone call to his folks (not yet, anyway; he'd save that treat for after the real performance) and going out to a bar would probably be stretching his luck at remaining undiscovered, he really only had one choice. It did occur to him that Lumpy probably wouldn't be happy that Melvin had chosen to ignore his advice, but he was too gleeful to care. Nothing bad had happened. Lumpy would get over it.

He walked obliviously into the room at the top of the stairs, and completely failed to notice anything amiss for the first three seconds until the first, completely unexpected observation of, _Huh, I didn't realize that wall was green_.

But it was, and he could see that now because it was completely devoid of any newspaper clippings, just as the table was empty of the mad scientist's kit and the whole room itself gave every indication of being uninhabited. Gone. Lumpy was gone, and just like Cloud Nine vanished from under Melvin's feet, because without him there were no more answers to be had and, more importantly, no cure.

His jaw worked soundlessly as he scoured the room once, then twice, looking for a hint, a trace he could use to figure out where the other had gone. Had the hotel owner found him out? Had the police been looking for him? Was it Melvin's fault?

He found nothing and kicked over the bin in frustration. It was hardly a satisfying target, being empty except for a cardboard box-

He stared, and then lunged for it. The bright red and white colours were easily recognizable. The popcorn box. It shouldn't have been here, he thought excitedly. After all, he'd taken it down to his own room to snack on and he distinctly remembered putting it in his own bin. Turning it over eagerly he found what he was looking for scrawled in pen on the bottom.

Couldn't take the chance that you might lead someone back here. Don't believe everything the papers tell you. Good luck, and be careful.

He stared at it for a long time, absorbing each individual word until they blurred together. It was uplifting and disappointing at once. He'd hoped for a forwarding address, a phone number, maybe a _name_…but the 'good luck' part made him feel a little less abandoned even if the 'don't believe the papers' bit was rather ominous. Hadn't Lumpy directed him to them in the first place? Was there some hidden code in them that he'd missed? He was always terrible at those kinds of things.

It didn't even cross his mind to throw the salty, rumpled box away. It was the only memento he had, and maybe when that cure was found Lumpy would come and look him up. If his plans of fame went to plan than Melvin would be easy enough to find. He tucked it safely away in his bag and turned to leave, only to realize there was someone standing in the doorway.

"Uh…" For a moment he thought it might be Mr. Cunningworth and he was prepared to come up with a slew of excuses for his unannounced presence in the Hotel, but this man was different. Taller, less frail, and with a distinctive looking eye patch.

_Vampires, mad scientists, and now pirates!_ He thought with an edge of hysteria, but the man didn't look very pirate-y. More like one of those stern army generals, even though he was currently wearing a very harmless looking smile. It didn't quite offset the coldness around his eyes.

"I was just taking a look around," he said quickly. "Admiring the view and all that. The room's all yours if you want it."

"Actually," the man said pleasantly, "I was looking for you."

* * *


End file.
